


A World About to Dawn

by SheOfTheBookAndSong



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Victoria (TV)
Genre: A lot of angst I am sorry, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Paris, Angst, Artistic License, Barricades, Drumfred, Edward Drummond and Alfred Paget, F/F, Flomina, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Look I have warned people in advance, M/M, Paris Uprising 1832, Revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2020-09-25 19:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 75,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20376727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheOfTheBookAndSong/pseuds/SheOfTheBookAndSong
Summary: The angst-ridden Drumfred Les Mis AU that none of you asked for but I'm giving you anyway.





	1. The Time Is Near

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thebriars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebriars/gifts), [iwritetrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwritetrash/gifts).

> Yes, hello, I am back.  
As you may have noticed, this is not Not Altogether Respectable but an entirely new Drumfred fic.  
I am going to write more for NAR as well, but the idea for this Les Mis AU has been swimming around at the back of my mind for months now. This was initially going to be written after NAR was finished - but basically, I realised that I was too excited to tell this story and so I'm gonna post it now (or at least some of it). Never fear though, this fic won't be nearly as long as NAR - although hopefully people might want to read both XD XD
> 
> Author's artistic license note: As this is a Les Miserables AU, it felt wrong for me to set it anywhere other than Paris. However, as it is also a Drumfred fic, it ALSO felt wrong trying to give Edward and Alfred French-ified names, as I have been writing about these characters for so long now. So. I know they all still have English names, but they also live in Paris and they're French - let's just roll with it XD
> 
> Mandatory disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, nor do I own any part of Les Miserables in any of its many versions, sadly. I would say that, if I did own them, I wouldn't have put the characters through so much pain, but....I know myself better than to say that XD
> 
> And with that, I hope you all enjoy getting to know these boys (and maybe some familiar girls too...) in a whole different setting!  
Just....with the angst....don't say I didn't warn you....

** _Paris. 1832. _ **

_ Despite the cries of liberty and equality heard during the French Revolution almost fifty years earlier, a Revolution which killed a king, there is once again a king on the throne of France.  _

_ There is cholera, famine and starvation among the poor people of Paris, and widespread anger and disillusionment about the corruption of the government. Despite promises of a republic, one monarch was replaced with another in a rebellion two years ago.  _

_ There is one powerful man who does his best to speak for the people , General Lemarque - but he is very ill, and many believe that he will soon be gone from the world, and his positive influence gone with him.  _

_ It is clear that the promises of liberty and equality have not yet been fulfilled - but while some give up and start to believe that these ideals are nothing but an impossible dream, there are others who refuse to stop fighting…. _

  
  


The pungent smell of cheap tallow candles fills the air of the little tavern, and one swift glance around the room shows that it is hardly the grandest place in Paris, or indeed the cleanest. 

But none of the young men huddled in the tavern seem to be at all concerned by the lack of luxury, though the expensive clothes they wear and their coiffed hair indicate that they are rather used to the finer things in life, making them seem a little out of place in this room. 

None of them are looking at their surroundings - rather, they are gazing attentively at the man in front of them, a man stood on a stool as he speaks to them, presumably to allow his voice to carry further. 

This young man seems perhaps even more out of place than the others in this rather dingy tavern. 

He is tall, broad, with dark and rather unruly curls falling over his forehead - astonishingly handsome, many might say. Dressed in fine burgundy velvet with spotless breeches and polished boots, he is clearly wealthy, and confident with it. 

But it is the flaming passion in his dark, green-flecked eyes, the fervour lighting up his entire face as he speaks, which draws the eye more than anything else, which seems to lend a bright glow to the otherwise unremarkable room around him. 

“Where is the liberty that we were promised all those years ago?” the young man asks his enthralled audience. “Where is the equality? Was it not promised to our parents, our grandparents, that our beautiful France would be a republic? That we would all be fellow citizens, without being pointlessly separated by class?”

There is a general murmur of assent among the other young men - most are too busy drinking in his words to fully respond. 

“Freedom was what was promised to us - and yet, it would appear that we have somehow come full circle since the time when old Louis Capet was guillotined and a republic declared in France! Now we have not Louis Capet, but Louis-Phillipe - and I see no great difference between these two tyrants. It seems to me that this king is no better than the last. He too, allows corruption to run unchecked among the wealthy men who advise him, all the while ignoring the poor people in Paris who are starving on the streets, and who desperately need his help!”

“What about General Lemarque?” a young man pipes up suddenly from the huddled crowd of listeners. 

“It’s true,” the man at the front responds, inclining his head respectfully towards the man who interrupted him. “General Lemarque is a lion among wolves. He has done his absolute best to stand up against corruption and injustice wherever he sees it - he is truly the people’s man. But the tragedy for the people of Paris is that Lemarque is ill, and fading fast. In fact, he won’t last the week out, so they say. Lemarque is a light in the darkness - but his flame is soon to flicker out. And when it does, gentlemen - I say that  _ we  _ can be the ones to rekindle the spark. The time for revolution, I truly believe, is almost upon us - and we shall be there to meet that time when it comes. We can all unite, everyone gathered here,  _ we  _ can rise up and defend the poor and the suffering of Paris,  _ we  _ can fight back against the tyrant and his pack of wolves, in the name of Lemarque, champion of the people. All we need is an abundance of faith and courage. Who is with me?”

A great cheer rises up from the men huddled in front of him, and the handsome man’s face lights up in a surprisingly boyish smile, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. 

“Excellent,” he breathes, as though he is genuinely surprised by their enthusiasm. “I cannot begin to explain how much your support means to me, gentlemen. I thank you - and I promise you, the people of Paris will soon thank you too. But enough of my tedious prattling for now, I think!” A disbelieving chuckle runs around the room at these words. 

“If we are truly to turn this dream of revolution into reality - and soon - then there is work to be done, and plans to be made! Albert - perhaps if you could bring out a map of Paris so that we can determine our points of attack? And Francatelli, my friend - if you could begin drawing up an inventory of the supplies we already have, I will be with you in just a moment...”

His face still flushed with fervour, he jumps down from the stool he stands on. The spell of his voice broken, there is a sudden bustle of activity in the tavern. 

He begins to make his way towards Francatelli, who has already pulled a piece of parchment towards him and started writing down supplies, as requested - but before he can join the other man, the leader of the revolution has his path blocked by two buxom women. One of the women is brunette, the other a redhead - both are wearing somewhat low-cut gowns, and they lean in towards him conspiratorially with a hand on each arm, so that the tops of their breasts are exposed to fullest advantage. 

“That really was quite some speech, Monsieur,” the brunette woman purrs at him. “Indeed, you are truly an inspiration,” the fire-haired woman adds, looking up at him sweetly from underneath her eyelashes. “Perhaps, Monsieur, you might like to sit with us for a little while? Tell us more about the revolution?”

“Oh…no, I...um…” 

The passionate articulacy which had held everyone rapt mere moments before seems suddenly to have vanished, and the man, though still beautiful, seems suddenly to have become a stuttering, awkward and tongue-tied boy. The fervour has vanished from his face, and his abrupt anxiety is evident for anyone to see. He appears to be seriously considering bolting.

“Oh come, Monsieur,” the brunette woman says, smirking as her gaze falls to the man’s lips and she bites down slightly on her own. “One cannot be dedicated and selfless  _ all  _ the time. Everybody needs to take a little time for their own pleasure.” 

“I...thank you, Mesdemoiselles, truly, but...but I really don’t…”

“You don’t what, Monsieur?” the redhead asks with a giggle, tossing her locks so that they practically hit him in the face. 

He has gone scarlet by now, and despite the fluency of his speech before, he can’t seem to find any words with which to respond. His dark eyes dart around the tavern, as though desperately looking for an escape route. 

Another tall, dark man appears suddenly behind him, clapping him on the shoulder. He turns, and seems to almost sigh audibly in relief. 

“Mind if I have a word with you, Drummond?” the newcomer asks jovially. “I just wanted to discuss strategy with you a little - and we wouldn’t want to bore these lovely ladies, would we?” He grins at said ladies seductively, throwing them a mischievous wink.

“Yes ...of course….” Drummond answers, sounding immensely grateful for the interruption. “Excuse us, mesdemoiselles….”

As soon as the men are out of the ladies’ earshot, Drummond exhales, sounding exhausted despite the briefness of his encounter with the women. 

“Thank you, Ernest, truly. I confess I wasn’t too sure what to do there.”

Ernest laughs, shaking his head at him. 

“What?” Drummond asks, frowning. 

“It’s just….amusing, is all,” Ernest responds, still chuckling. “All that fire and passion up there on the stool one moment, making speeches that could convince somebody that day is night, or black is white. And yet, as soon as any woman speaks to you, you have absolutely no clue what to do or how to act, do you? You know, you will never cease to amaze me, Edward Drummond.” 

Edward Drummond flushes an even brighter shade of scarlet, mortified. 

* * *

In another small and dingy tavern only a few streets away, another young man sits. 

An onlooker who had just come from the other tavern might have remarked that this man looks quite as striking as Edward Drummond, the leader of the revolutionaries, though in a very different way. 

His bright blond hair seems to gleam in the low light of the candles, and his eyes with their long lashes are a startling, almost bewitching shade of blue. 

He appears to be another kind of young man who could easily command the attention and admiration of others, should he wish it - but one glance is enough to see that, at the moment, he craves not adoration, but solitude. 

The pale golden-haired man sits hunched at the bar of the tavern, cradling his tankard tightly and staring vaguely into its depths as though considering whether it would be possible to drown himself in it. His gaze appears a little unfocused, and as he leans his elbow on the countertop, he seems to lose his balance slightly for a moment. Evidently, the tankard he cradles is far from his first of the evening. 

The door of the tavern bangs open, and another young man barges unceremoniously in, the expression on his face indicating that he is not in the sweetest temper. 

The newcomer is taller and broader than the man sitting clutching his tankard at the bar, but the similar gleam of his blond hair - not to mention the expression of recognition and relief that crosses his face as his blue eyes fall on the other man - leave scarcely a doubt that the two are related, and closely. 

“Alfred, for god’s sake,” the newcomer chides, strolling quickly over to him, his annoyance clear in his tone. “This is  _ not  _ where we agreed to meet!”

“Isn’t it?” Alfred responds vaguely, scarcely glancing up at him. 

“I have been looking for you for nearly two hours now!”

Alfred shrugs slightly. “I’m sorry, George. I forgot we had agreed to meet.” 

George glares at him, unimpressed by this clearly half-hearted apology. “If you were  _ truly _ sorry, Alfred, you might have made more of an effort to remember after forgetting the last time!” 

Alfred shrugs again. “Honestly, George, does it matter? Does anything really matter?”

The innkeeper, a tall, thin man with a greedy malice in his face, pushes another tankard towards Alfred, despite the fact that he hasn’t yet asked for it. He names an absurdly high price, but before Alfred can hand any money over, George pushes it back towards the innkeeper with a withering look. The man gives him an ugly look in return, and walks away behind the bar. 

“You do  _ not  _ need any more to drink,” George tells Alfred firmly. “In fact, you know what? I’ve had enough, Alfred. You need to stop this.” 

“Stop what? What are you talking about?” Alfred asks, still gazing at his tankard instead of George. 

“You know  _ exactly  _ what I’m talking about,” George responds angrily. “You need to stop wallowing, drinking your life away.” He lowers his voice so that he’s speaking in an undertone. 

“It won’t bring Alexandre back, and you know it. It’s over, Alfred. Time to move on.”

Alfred finally looks up from his tankard. There is nothing vague or unfocused about the glare he gives George now. 

“Move on? Move on to  _ what _ , exactly, George? Move on to thinking about the fact that I will never see him again? Move on to thinking about my own cowardice, about the fact that I could have saved him, could have avenged him, about the fact that I have done neither?” 

“Alfred…” George murmurs, gazing at him with helpless sympathy, his anger seemingly forgotten in the face of his brother’s outburst. 

“Alexandre’s father  _ killed  _ him, in cold blood, when he discovered his son was bedding men,” Alfred continues, his voice trembling with rage and grief. “I know it. You know it. Even  _ His Majesty  _ Louis-Phillipe knows it.” He sneers as he mentions the king. 

“But of course, Louis-Phillipe is rather fond of Alexandre’s bastard of a father, isn’t he? Couldn’t let it be known that he’s rubbing shoulders with a murderer, could he? And so the king covers for him, spreads it around that Alexandre’s death was somehow a tragic accident, despite the fact that anybody with half a brain could look at the evidence and  _ know  _ that’s a lie. Louis-Phillipe will continue to keep that bastard’s dirty secrets for him, keeping him in luxury, just as he turns a blind eye to the corruption of every other bastard in his government. And it will always be like that, George. Nothing changes. Nothing ever will.”

“Alfred - “ George says again, gently, trying to distract him from his tirade. 

“And I  _ know _ I can’t bring him back, George, I don’t need you to tell me that, thank you,” Alfred snaps, his blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Hell, I haven’t even managed to avenge him properly, point the finger of blame. Because his father knows only that Alexandre was bedding men - what would he do to me if he were to realise that  _ I  _ was one of the men he bedded? So I do nothing. I just sit here, and hold my tongue, like the coward that I am.” His voice is full of bitterness and self-loathing, and he pauses, closing his eyes briefly as he swallows back tears. 

“ _ Now  _ do you see why I drink to forget, George?” Alfred asks. His rage apparently spent with his sudden rant, he sounds merely hopeless and exhausted now. 

George looks at him. “You never actually.... _ loved _ him though, did you?” he murmurs.

Alfred makes a choked sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“I don’t know. Maybe not. But it’s not like I’ll ever get a chance to love him now, is it? Anyway, that’s hardly the point.”

George doesn’t try to argue his point any further, but merely looks at his brother hopelessly, as though wishing he had the power to help him. Alfred picks up his tankard and takes another sip, avoiding his eyes again. 

George clears his throat. 

“Speaking of Louis-Phillipe, and his corrupt government,” he says cautiously, “did you know that there is a group of students who are apparently convinced they can bring them all down? I heard them shouting in the streets about it the other day. From what I heard, they believe they can bring another revolution to the people of Paris.” 

Alfred gives a hollow laugh, staring into the tankard in front of him again. “Idiots.” 

The two of them lull into silence for a brief moment, before George speaks up again. 

“Why don’t you come with me to one of their meetings at the ABC Cafe tomorrow?” he asks. 

Alfred stares at him, raising his eyebrows. “What on  _ earth  _ would be the point of that, George?”

“Well, what’s the point in anything, according to you?” George fires back sardonically. Alfred grimaces slightly, acknowledging the hit. “Aren’t you at all curious to see what they’re up to?” 

Alfred shrugs noncommittally. “Not particularly.” 

“Well, I am, and I would like you to come with me,” George responds firmly. “And who knows? Their idiocy might perhaps give you a laugh, if nothing else, which I should say you sorely need.” 

Alfred turns to scan his eyes over George’s face. Something in the set of his jaw seems to convince him that there is no point in trying to argue. Alfred does, he supposes, owe his brother after standing him up. Twice. 

He sighs wearily. 

“Fine,” he mutters reluctantly. “As you wish, George.” 


	2. Burst of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somebody is waiting for Edward at home - and someone is waiting for George and Alfred, as well.  
An important meeting occurs in the ABC Cafe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And on we go with the fic!
> 
> Author's Note: I sincerely apologise to Lord Henry Paget, Marquess of Anglesey, who is quite possibly rolling over in his grave right now at the suggestion that he fought for the FRENCH at Waterloo. I know Henry, I know - you lost your leg fighting AGAINST the French. I am very sorry, I needed to switch you over to the other side just for the purpose of this fic - if it's any consolation, you're still an absolute badass!
> 
> Also just a brief content warning: there are references to domestic violence in this chapter. The actual violence happens off-screen, but it is still discussed in the chapter. Just letting people know in case this might be an uncomfortable topic for them!
> 
> Anyway, enough of my rambling - I hope you all enjoy Chapter 2!

She sits there, leaning her back against his front door as she so often does, waiting for him to get home. He may live only a few doors away from her, but whenever she’s with him, it feels like she’s a world away from her own house and all the grim and exhausting things that happen there. 

She closes her eyes as she leans her head back, and winces slightly as the memory of her father with his raised voice and raised fists comes back to her again. Remembering the argument - if she could really call it that when she had done nothing to provoke it - seems to make her cheek burn and sting with pain afresh. 

She sighs to herself. Not long now, surely, until _ he _will get back home and see her waiting for him - and then she can forget about everything that’s happened, and it won’t matter anymore. 

And sure enough, as though she had somehow willed him into existence, he appears around the corner scarcely a moment later. 

Edward Drummond, dark curls falling over his forehead, brow furrowed, chewing on his lip slightly as he walks along, deep in thought and clearly lost in his own world. As he gets closer, she sees the corner of his mouth twitch up into a little grin, as though he is remembering something that made him laugh, or at least made him happy. She wishes she could see what he’s thinking. She wishes she could have just a little glimpse of that happiness. 

She climbs swiftly to her feet, crossing her arms boldly and grinning at him to make sure he can’t miss her there. Edward jumps slightly at the sudden movement - apparently he was so deep in thought that her presence has startled him. 

“Florence!” he says in surprised greeting, shooting her one of his enthusiastic boyish smiles. 

“‘Bout time, I’d say, Monsieur,” Florence teases, still grinning at him. “Been waiting for you long enough.”

As he gets closer to her, Edward’s bright smile suddenly drops entirely, replaced by a look of fury and concern. Before she can ask him what’s wrong, he reaches out, tilting her cheek towards him slightly with fingers that are astonishingly careful and gentle. Florence shivers slightly as his eyes trace over the ugly bruise on her cheekbone. 

“God, what did he do to you this time, Florence?” Edward asks her, quiet rage trembling in his voice. 

She pulls away from him. “Nothing,” she mutters. 

“It is _ not _n-” he starts indignantly.

“It’s just the usual, Edward,” she says firmly, cutting him off. “I can handle it.” 

He looks at her doubtfully, but she folds her arms aggressively, standing at her fullest height and raising an eyebrow silently as she stares right back at him. After a moment, Edward sighs, evidently realising that there is no point arguing with her. 

“At least come inside,” he says. “Let me see if I can fix up some kind of salve for it. That’s the very least I can do.”

Florence smiles at him. Revolutionary leader he might be, but still, Edward can be rather endearingly naive sometimes. Why would he think she needed any kind of persuasion to come inside? Why else did he think she had been sitting waiting by his front door?

“I believe I can allow that,” she says teasingly, grinning, and he unlocks the door and gestures politely for her to go in ahead of him. 

Having easily gained an invitation indoors, though, Florence suddenly finds herself feeling a touch awkward inside his house, not quite knowing what to do with herself.

She stands there in the middle of Edward’s tiny, modest kitchen, rubbing her arms self-consciously as she looks around. 

“Please, sit down, sit down,” Edward tells her, gesturing towards the little kitchen table. She obeys hesitantly. 

“I’ll be back in a moment, I just need to find some ointment,” he explains. Florence nods, and he gives her a small smile, clearly struggling not to comment any further on the bruise. 

As he leaves the room, she gazes around, taking in her surroundings. Edward’s flat, like her own, is rather grubby and unremarkable, the paint beginning to peel off the walls, with mysterious marks here and there. One would not think, from glancing around this place, that Edward Drummond had been born into wealth and privilege. But Florence knows better - she knows for a fact that Edward has been disinherited, having fallen out with his father over irreconcilable differences in their political views. 

Charles Drummond is a proud monarchist. Apparently, when Edward had told him in no uncertain terms that Louis-Phillipe was no better than a tyrant, and that he, Edward, would dedicate his life to bringing a republic back to France, Charles had wasted no time in telling his own son to get out and never darken his doorstep again. 

Florence might have thought that somebody so used to luxury and the finer things in life would pine for the loss of it; but despite the relatively shabby conditions he is now reduced to, Edward never really seems to look back with regret. He never seems to think about the past much - only the future. 

“Here we are,” Edward announces, interrupting Florence’s reverie as he bustles back into the little kitchen, a small and unassuming silver tin clutched in his hand. “This should soothe the pain a little bit, at least.”

“Thank you,” she mutters, embarrassed that he is still fixating on this. She wishes she could truly leave the ugliness of her own world behind her when she is with him. 

She holds out her hand for the tin. “I can sort it out when I get back home.”

Edward frowns at her. “Don’t be silly, I’ll do it,” he says firmly, sitting down next to her at the table. 

Florence flushes as he opens the little tin and begins slowly dabbing the cool ointment onto her cheek with gentle, careful fingers. She can feel tears beginning to sting the back of her eyes, and she looks quickly down at the table, blinking them away fiercely before Edward sees. 

No matter how many times she comes to see him, she still can’t fathom why he’s so kind to her. Why he seems to care so much, when nobody else ever does. Of course, that’s precisely why she keeps coming back - she craves his warmth like someone might crave sunlight after a long, cold night. But she could no more explain his kindness than explain the sun’s warmth - it just _ is _. 

She clears her throat, searching for something to say to break the silence. 

“So what have you been up to today, Monsieur?” she asks, trying her best to grin at him. “Off trying to start the revolution again?”

As always happens whenever she mentions anything to do with his politics, Edward’s entire face immediately lights up, shining with fervour. 

“The people are saying that Lemarque, the people’s man, is on his deathbed,” he tells her breathlessly, as he continues dabbing salve gently on her bruised cheek. “Paris is a tinderbox right now, Florence - and Lemarque’s death is going to be the spark that sets everything off, I know it. The time for revolution is almost upon us, I can sense it - and I for one will be here to meet it when it comes.”

Florence stares at him, feeling a little overwhelmed by his passion, as she so often does whenever he speaks like this. Being so close to him when he is in such a mood is like being dazzled by light. 

She has never in her life met anybody else like Edward - so full of faith and courage, so utterly determined, completely refusing to lose hope or give in to doubt no matter how dark and difficult the world around him gets. She may not know much, Florence thinks to herself as she watches Edward rant fervently - but she does know that wherever he goes, she will go.

“Are you and the other students having another meeting tomorrow, Monsieur?” she asks, interrupting him. “In the same place?”

Edward looks a little taken aback at her question. 

“Yes, we are,” he responds after a moment. “Why do you ask?”

Florence traces her eyes over his face, trying to gauge what his reaction might be.

“Can...can I come?”

Edward hesitates. Florence can see the worry in his dark eyes, can see him wondering if he should refuse.

“But…your father....wouldn’t he be angry?”

She shrugs. She’d really rather not think about her father, much less discuss him with Edward. “Doesn’t matter. I can keep out of his way, I’ve had years of practice,” she answers, trying to sound nonchalant. “Anyway, most likely he’ll be too drunk to even notice I’m not home.” 

Edward chews on his lips for a moment, clearly debating with himself. 

“Yes, you can come,” he says finally, though reluctantly. 

Florence feels her mouth twitch up into a broad grin. She’s not used to that sensation. “Thank you,” she breathes. 

“But....” he says hesitantly.

She tenses, wondering if he’s changed his mind already. “What?”

“Just…take care of yourself, Florence. Please.”

She stares at him, fighting back the tears that are stinging her eyes again. _ What has she ever done to deserve his kindness? _

She swallows. “I will. I promise.” 

* * *

“God, Alfred, _ must _ you drink quite so _ much _all the time?” George huffs, as he carefully opens the front door of their house. “I’m sure your liver would thank you if you gave it a bit of a rest now and again.” 

“Didn’t have _ that _much,” Alfred argues, his words coming out slightly slurred. “‘M fine.”

“Yes, I can see that,” George retorts. “That must be why you’re struggling to walk into the house steadily without leaning heavily on my arm.”

Alfred has no response, except to lean on him a little more. 

George sighs to himself. He had thought he’d managed to get through to his brother when they spoke about the students’ meeting at the ABC Cafe - but he still hadn’t managed to prevent him from downing two more tankards. And paying an obscenely high price for them, too.

As they come into the stylishly decorated living room, George tries to gently steer Alfred towards his favourite armchair. 

“Try to be quiet, Alfred,” he murmurs. “It’s quite late. Mina and Papa have probably already gone up to bed.”

“I am....I will....quiet,” Alfred responds, stumbling away from George towards the armchair and immediately knocking a vase off the side table with a resounding crash. “That was...mistake,” Alfred mumbles, looking down at the vase with an expression of forlorn bewilderment on his face. 

George sighs again, resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands. “Yes. I know it was.”

Scarcely a moment later, he hears light footsteps hurrying down the stairs, and a small, pretty blonde woman bursts into the room, dressed in a white nightgown, her long hair hanging in a plait down her back. 

“George? What’s going on?” she asks, concern in her voice. Her blue eyes immediately land on Alfred, still staring down at the vase on the floor and swaying slightly where he stands. “Oh no...again?” she asks quietly, looking back at George. 

He rolls his eyes at her conspiratorially. “Can you just help me with him a bit, Mina?”

She nods quickly. “Of course.” She darts forward, gently taking Alfred’s arm as George takes the other, somewhat less gently. Together, the two of them finally manage to steer him safely into the armchair.

“Thank you…” Alfred mumbles, peering up at Mina, his gaze unfocused. “‘M sorry, Mina....didn’t mean to wake you up....”

“Don’t worry about it,” she answers, forcing a smile. “I was reading anyway.”

George smiles thankfully at her, as always grateful for her seemingly never-ending patience. 

Mina may not _ actually _ be their sister, strictly speaking - their father Henry, having made a promise to Mina’s dying mother, rescued her from the abusive household she had been trapped in, about ten years ago now - but George and Alfred always _ think _of her as their sister, just as their father always thinks of her as his daughter. As far as they’re concerned, she’s as good as. 

“I’ll just fetch him a glass of water,” Mina says quietly, turning and heading towards the kitchen where the jug stands. 

George hears a familiar slow wooden clunk coming down the stairs, and he groans, sinking down into the chair next to Alfred. So much for coming in without disturbing anyone. He should never have been so foolishly optimistic as to think he could sneak Alfred into the house in this state without their father noticing. 

Sure enough, he arrives in the room a moment later, leaning on his stick and frowning. 

His hair may be mostly grey now, but age has done nothing to rob Henry Paget of the air of dignity and authority he carries with him, and he is still good-looking enough that tales of his youthful escapades would not come as too much of a shock to most people. His confident and commanding presence might lead strangers to believe that this is a man ready to lead troops on the battlefield - but George and Alfred know their father better. 

Henry _ was _an army captain, years ago, when his sons were only small boys - in fact, he was one of the most skilled and courageous soldiers at the Battle of Waterloo. However, a cannon blast at that same battle had lost him his leg, leaving him with the cumbersome wooden one he has now - and ever since that fateful day, Henry has lost most of his ability for fighting, as well as all of his desire for it. 

“Good god, George,” Henry says as he takes in the scene in front of him, glaring at his younger, sober son. “How many times must I tell you? You _ need _ to stop foolishly encouraging him, he should _ not _be drinking such a ridiculous amount!”

“It isn’t _ my _ fault, Papa!” George defends himself indignantly. “Alfred was well on his way to being in this state when I found him! I tried to take the tankard _ away _from him!”

“I’m sure it _ wasn’t _ George’s fault, Papa,” Mina pipes up, as Henry opens his mouth to respond.

Henry stops short, glancing over at her, before turning back to George and scanning his eyes over his son’s face, as though searching for signs of insincerity. Seemingly deciding that George is telling the truth, Henry grunts and sinks wearily and awkwardly down onto the sofa, resting his stick against the side table and reaching out to pick up the newspaper that is lying there. Apparently he is giving up on sleep for the moment. Mina sits down cautiously on the sofa next to him. 

“Lemarque is fading fast, apparently,” he comments as he skims the front page of the newspaper. “It’s a terrible shame - I should say he was the only decent men left in government. God knows what the state of this country will be once he’s gone.”

“Did you know there’s a group of students who seem to think they can overthrow the government, Papa? Lead a revolution in Lemarque’s honour?” George asks conversationally. “I was just telling Alfred all about them. We think we might go along to one of their meetings - see what all the fuss is about, see why they seem so sure of themselves.”

“You will do _ no _such thing!” Henry snaps, making Mina jump as he glares at George, suddenly fierce again. 

George leans away from his father slightly, caught off-guard by this reaction. “And why shouldn’t we, Papa?” he asks defiantly after a moment, collecting himself again. 

Henry stretches his wooden leg out pointedly. “Don’t you think I’ve seen enough violence, enough young death, to last me a lifetime, George?” he demands angrily. “Those boys might think they’re leading the way to a glorious revolution - but the reality is that it’s nothing but a fool’s errand. They are setting out to get themselves killed. I can hardly stop them - though I wish to God I could. But I have watched so many friends die, and I have lived through the loss of your mother, and if you think I want to live to see you and Alfred…”

His voice shakes slightly, and George sees tears beginning to well up in his father’s eyes. He looks away, knowing Henry won’t want him to see. Henry swallows, composing himself.

“I will not have you and Alfred getting wrapped up in any of it,” he says firmly. “I don’t want either of you anywhere _ near _them. Do I make myself clear, George?”

Henry stares at him, forcing him to make eye contact, and George sighs, knowing that there is no point in trying to argue. “Yes, Papa. Perfectly clear.”

Henry holds his gaze for a moment longer, and George tries his best to keep his expression neutral. 

“I think I might take Alfred up to bed now, Papa,” he says innocently. “He needs to sleep it off.” 

Henry grunts, clearly trying to hide his emotion, and turns back to the newspaper he is holding. “I’ll follow you up in a minute. Mina, you should go with them now, it’s late.”

Mina nods, getting to her feet and kissing Henry on the cheek before walking to catch up with George, who is already tugging a still-unsteady Alfred out of the living room and towards the staircase. 

Mina is just in time to catch what George mutters to Alfred as soon as they are out of their father’s earshot. 

“Papa can’t stop us going. He doesn’t need to know. Besides, we’re only going to watch. I mean, it’s not as though we’re pledging ourselves to their cause, is it?”

* * *

The next evening, Alfred is once again feeling slightly unsteady on his feet as he approaches the ABC Cafe with George, which may have something to do with the hip flask he has been swigging from. 

He certainly feels more clear-headed than he did this time last night - but still, he’s rather impressed that he managed to sneak past his father without him noticing while in this state. But then again, perhaps it was more to do with George’s cunning - and sobriety. And Alfred has a sneaking suspicion that Mina is covering for them. 

“You know, I cannot for the life of me remember why I agreed to this, George,” he complains, as he takes another swig from his flask. 

“I told you, it will be interesting to see what they talk about,” George responds cheerily. “Besides, I’m sure it will be entertaining at the very least, even if it is complete rubbish like Papa says.” 

Alfred sighs and rolls his eyes as George holds the door of the tavern open for him. He really doesn’t know why his brother is so insistent on wasting his time with this; but then, if he’s honest with himself, he supposes that he doesn’t do much of value with his time these days, anyway. 

Looking around as he enters, Alfred sees that the ABC Cafe is rather small and dingy, the scent of cheap tallow candles pervading the air. It hardly seems a very fitting place for the birth of a glorious revolution. Though perhaps it is just the place for a group of idiots deluding themselves and marching out on a suicide mission. 

He hovers with George in the doorway, looking over at a group of young men who are all perfectly groomed and dressed in finely tailored silk jackets, huddled together around scattered papers and parchments on a table. 

Alfred barely manages to repress a snort at the sight of them. Apparently these ‘revolutionaries’ are hardly starving in poverty on the streets themselves, and are not particularly well-acquainted personally with the injustices they rant about. 

Can this really even be called a revolution, he wonders? From where he’s standing at the moment, it seems like simply a game for rich young boys to play. 

One of the men poring over the parchments, a tall, skinny man with dark hair and a delicate moustache, looks up as he notices Alfred and George hovering near the doorway.

“Aha!” he exclaims, grinning as he hurries forwards to shake their hands. “New recruits?”

Alfred doesn’t bother repressing his snort this time, the alcohol he has already consumed robbing him of subtlety. “Hardly,” he responds. George elbows him in the side rather hard, glaring at him. 

“I’m George Paget, and this is my brother Alfred,” George says, shaking the man’s proffered hand. “Albert,” the man responds, smiling.

“We were curious about these meetings, we thought we’d like to come and see one for ourselves,” George continues. “Please, you’ll have to excuse my brother - he’s had a bit to drink already.” 

“No no, please, that’s quite alright,” Albert responds hastily. “We’re always happy to see new faces here.” 

“I thought there was supposed to be a meeting happening here tonight? I don’t see anything in particular going on,” Alfred says bluntly. 

“Well, yes, there is going to be a meeting,” Albert answers, frowning slightly at Alfred. “We’ll be starting in a few minutes, once our leader, Edward Drummond, arrives.” 

“Ah - running late, is he?” Alfred asks, grinning sardonically. “Perhaps he’s already changed his mind about the ‘revolution’.”

George glares at him again, and Albert looks shocked, as do the others who are listening in on the conversation. 

“Drummond? Change his mind? Never!” Albert exclaims. “There is nobody who has more passion and dedication to the revolution than he does! Drummond will lead us to victory!” 

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure he will,” Alfred responds, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. 

Albert frowns again, opening his mouth to respond - but before he can, the door of the tavern opens again behind them, and Alfred turns to see the newcomer. 

A broad-shouldered, dark-haired man wearing a deep burgundy coat hurries in, closely followed by a thin, rather dirty young blonde woman in a ragged and threadbare dress and shawl. 

The young woman keeps her head down, apparently reluctant to meet anyone’s eyes, but the young man immediately offers a huge, boyish smile to the others already assembled, as an enthusiastic cry of greeting runs around the small room. 

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, gentlemen,” the man says, still beaming. “I am afraid my friend here, Florence” - he gestures to the girl, who flushes slightly as the men turn their gaze towards her - “was in need of some assistance. I thank you all for your patience.” 

“There’s a seat for you here, Drummond,” one of the men calls, and Drummond smiles gratefully. Pulling the young woman, Florence, gently along with him, he offers the seat with the comfortable cushion on it to her. Looking somewhat bewildered at this attention to her welfare, she sits down, murmuring her thanks quietly. Drummond smiles at her, and pulls up a rougher, less comfortable-looking chair next to her. The other men all immediately seat themselves in a circle around him. 

“We were just trying to work out what supplies we might have available, Drummond,” one of the men says to him. “It’s not looking ideal - it might be rather difficult for us to build a proper barricade. Perhaps almost impossible if we do not manage to gain enough supporters from among the people.” 

Edward Drummond shakes his head gently at the man, still smiling. 

“Gentlemen, I’m sure that you’re aware that we, spoiled rich boys that most of us undoubtedly are” - there is a collective awkward chuckle at these words - “possess an incredible amount of luck and privilege that many people on the streets of Paris could hardly dream of. But we do not simply take this for granted, lying around on silken cushions and leaving them to their plight while they starve on the streets. No, gentlemen, we can see the corruption in this city, even though it does not directly target us, and we have decided to use our voices, the privilege that makes us so easily seen and heard, to stand up and fight for all those who are less lucky than us. Believe me, gentlemen, the people of Paris will not ignore us when they see that we are fighting for their cause, their freedom. They will rise up to join us, I know it.” 

He pauses for a moment, and a shivering silence hangs in the room. His audience are hanging on his every word. 

To his shock, Alfred suddenly realises, as he gazes at Edward Drummond, spellbound, that his hands are shaking slightly. And it’s not because of the alcohol. It’s because of _ him. _

For starters, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen somebody so beautiful - dark curls cascading chaotically over the olive skin of his forehead, broad shoulders, a smile that’s as dazzling as pure sunlight, and those _ eyes _ \- wide, dark, earnest, flecked with golden green. 

But it’s the sheer passion radiating from this man that stuns Alfred more than anything. When Alfred had first entered this room, he had thought it small, grim and shabby. But the mere presence of this man, Edward Drummond, seems to suddenly fill the cramped and overcrowded room with light and warmth. He feels foolish now for scoffing when he had been told about Edward’s dedication, he feels cruel for dismissing the students as idiots so quickly. 

Somehow, Edward Drummond seems to have awoken some part of him that he thought had died years ago, with Alexandre. Somehow, Edward’s words have made something flicker again deep in his chest. Is it hope? Is he daring to hope again? 

“I know that it’s difficult to have faith sometimes, easy to find ourselves doubting,” Edward is saying. “But the most essential thing is that we must not allow ourselves to lose hope, to give in to bitterness or emptiness. For that is when we truly begin to lose the fight, to lose ourselves, even. We have to support each other. If we want to keep fighting, we must look towards those we love to help guide the way.”

Alfred makes a tiny, choked sound before he can stop himself - and immediately flushes when Edward Drummond’s dark eyes meet his gaze, feeling his heart flip over in his chest. He hasn’t felt anything like this in _ years _\- in fact, he’d begun half-imagining that his heart had turned to stone in his chest. 

Edward Drummond stares back at him, looking a little stunned. A faint pink blush stains his cheek, and he pauses in his speech for a moment, as though he has lost his train of thought for the first time in his life. He seems to mentally shake himself, turning his face hastily back towards the other students and returning to his speech, stumbling over his words a little now. 

With the words that Edward has just spoken, about the dangers of losing hope, of losing sight of oneself, Alfred feels strangely as though Edward somehow _ understands _him, has somehow managed to look past this hardened shell he has built for himself, and has seen straight through to his soul.

That’s impossible, obviously. He’s being ridiculous. 

Alfred doesn’t know much, it’s true. But he knows he’s never felt anything like this before, not even with Alexandre. He knows that nothing is the same anymore. He knows that somehow, against all the odds, he has managed to stumble blindly into a dazzling light. And he never wants to go back into the dark and cold again. 

Alfred blinks as he suddenly realises that Edward Drummond has finished his speech, and is moving through the room, touching men gently on the shoulder and murmuring a word here, pointing something out on a piece of parchment there. 

And he is moving closer to where Alfred and George are sitting, the young woman, Florence, hovering awkwardly behind him as though reluctant to move too far away from him. Before Alfred knows it, he’s standing right in front of them.

“Edward Drummond,” he introduces himself, giving another one of those dazzling smiles as he offers his hand. His heart beating painfully fast, Alfred feels as though he is rooted to the spot, unable to form coherent words, and he stares up at Edward stupidly.

“George Paget,” George answers, coming to his rescue and shaking Edward’s proffered hand. “And this here is my brother, Alfred Paget.” 

Edward Drummond turns to Alfred, dark eyes tracing over his face as though committing it to memory, and Alfred holds out his hand, feeling as though he is dreaming and will wake up at any moment. He jumps slightly at the touch of Edward’s skin, pulling his hand back more quickly than he had intended to. It feels as though there are sparks jumping between their hands. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen either of you here before,” Edward Drummond murmurs. “Tell me, what brings the two of you to our meeting?”

His dark eyes never leave Alfred’s face as he speaks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand as you may have guessed, things are really going to start heating up from here on in....
> 
> As always, comments and kudos make my day! Thank you to all of the gorgeous people who have already given this new fic love and support! <3 <3 xxx


	3. Soul on Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred and Edward get to know a little more about each other. Meanwhile, Henry runs into someone from his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for anyone who doesn't know, I've just started teaching full-time (in a new country) and at the moment life is completely and utterly insane - so I apologise that there might be longer waits between chapters than I was hoping for. But never fear, I will keep coming back to write for these boys (both in this fic and my main one) whenever I get a chance, because I absolutely love writing for them and I'm excited to show people my story!
> 
> Anyway, without further ado, I present Chapter 3 of this AU - I hope you enjoy (and also that you don't throw things at me through the screen)!

As Edward Drummond gazes at him with those dark, earnest eyes, Alfred feels his heart skip a beat as he stares back at him. He feels as if he would not be able to tear his eyes away, even if he wanted to. 

When George speaks, answering the question that Alfred has already almost forgotten Edward asking, his voice sounds strangely far away, as though it’s reaching Alfred only through a thick fog. 

“My brother and I came here because we were curious about this revolution of yours. We wanted to see what was going on.”

“Ah,” Edward says, inclining his head slightly in George’s direction and smiling at him. “Well, you are both more than welcome here.” 

“I’m not here for your revolution,” Alfred says suddenly, certainly, and Edward’s eyes immediately return to his, an expression of surprise on his beautiful face. 

Alfred isn’t quite sure what made him say it. Perhaps he doesn’t want to deceive this man about his intentions. Perhaps some part of him wants to challenge this man who seems so sure of himself and his cause, to catch him off his guard. Hell, perhaps he’s just seeking more attention from him. In which case, it certainly seems to have worked - Edward is gazing at him again, a slight frown creasing his brow. 

“I’m afraid it’s...it’s quite difficult for me to believe that there is actually going to be any revolution,” Alfred says, holding his ground as he meets Edward’s gaze full on. Strange, he thinks to himself vaguely - he was feeling dizzy and slightly sick scarcely half an hour ago. But this man’s calm, thoughtful brown eyes seem to have some steadying, soothing effect on him. 

“I’ve seen some...some dark things, in my life,” he goes on, his voice trembling a little, as it often does when he can’t stop the memories from flooding back. “Of course, I’d like to believe that a better world exists, if you fight for it. But I’m afraid I don’t see much point in either of us raising our hopes and fighting for something that is, in all likelihood, never going to happen.” 

Alfred tries his best to say it gently. God knows, he has no desire to hurt or upset this beautiful, sincere and idealistic man. But it seems obvious that Edward Drummond has never yet been wounded by the world in the same way that Alfred has - and Alfred would quite like to keep it that way, to protect him from being damaged by the world’s cruelty if at all possible. 

But Edward does not seem upset by Alfred’s words - only intrigued. He raises an eyebrow and smiles slightly, as though relishing the fact that Alfred is challenging him. 

“Well then,” he says. “If you don’t believe in any of this - then why did you come here?” 

Alfred frowns, somewhat confused by this question. The answer to that is obvious, surely?

“Well, I…my brother made me come,” he responds, gesturing with his head in George’s direction, though without breaking eye contact with Edward.

“I did not  _ make  _ you come!” George protests indignantly. Neither Alfred or Edward answer him, still gazing at each other. 

“You know what?” Edward says quietly. “I’m not sure that I believe you.”

Bewildered, Alfred’s frown deepens. “What do you mean, you don’t believe me?” he asks.

“I don’t believe that you really came here  _ just  _ because your brother asked you to,” Edward says, his voice so low now it sounds almost like an intimate whisper. “I think, if you  _ truly  _ didn’t want to be here, then you wouldn’t be here. I think that, deep down, you have come because you’re searching for some kind of answers, some kind of  _ meaning _ . Even if you don’t want to admit that to yourself.” 

Alfred swallows, heart pounding in his chest, as he stares back at Edward, who is tracing his eyes intently over his face as though he is reading the most fascinating book. How is it possible that this man, who he met scarcely ten minutes ago, seems to understand him better than he understands himself? It’s as though, somehow, Edward can see right through him, can look past this cynical, protective shell he has built for himself and instinctively understand Alfred’s longing for a reason to trust again, to hope. 

Alfred raises an eyebrow slightly, struggling to keep his expression neutral, not wanting Edward to see how thoroughly and successfully he has disarmed him. It’s rather difficult to appear unfazed when his heart is still pounding this much, though. 

“I see,” he says. “And do you think I  _ will  _ find some kind of meaning here, then?” He is not so surprised to hear that his voice, too, sounds almost like an intimate whisper. 

Those dark, earnest eyes trace over his face again. “I hope so,” Edward replies in a whisper no louder than Alfred’s. 

Hovering at Edward’s shoulder, her presence seemingly all but forgotten, Florence watches this intense conversation unfold, her chest tightening. 

She doesn’t know why this striking, golden-haired man has suddenly appeared in the tavern, as if from nowhere. She only knows that she wishes he had never come. 

She always thought that she and Edward had a special kind of connection, a connection that nobody else could ever understand, that meant nobody else would ever come between them. 

But as she looks at the two men, she realises that she can’t remember Edward ever looking at  _ her  _ like that. He is searching Alfred Paget’s face as though there are secrets held there that he longs to unlock. He is gazing at Alfred Paget as though he is the most beautiful, fascinating enigma he has ever seen. 

Florence swallows, fighting the tears that are stinging at the back of her eyes. She has never been as important to Edward as he is to her, she realises. She was foolish enough to convince herself that he loved her. But all this time, it seems, she has only been pretending. He was never hers to lose. She sees that clearly now. 

* * *

Walking does not come as easily to him as once it did, Henry Paget thinks to himself, not for the first time, as he limps through the streets of Paris, dragging his wooden leg. 

As so often happens these days, he finds himself lost in memories; memories of the deafening roar of gunfire, of horses charging across the field, hearing yells of terror and pain, the searing agony before he had lapsed into unconsciousness when he had lost his own leg. He really had believed, on that day, that the end had come for him. As it turned out, of course, he had been spared - but Henry still remembers the cold, numb shock of seeing so many men lying dead and mangled on the battlefield around him. Many of those were men he had known, respected, liked. Many of them were younger than him. 

He hears a cry of  _ ‘Vive la revolution!’,  _ bringing him back to the present, and he shakes his head as he sees another one of those young students, waving a flag over his head and standing on a box, trying to call the people of Paris towards him. Though some are floating towards him, intrigued, many others are rushing past, avoiding his eyes, as though they don’t want any part of the trouble he will bring. 

Henry sighs to himself. He has seen enough young death to last him a lifetime, or more. He won’t pretend that he does not respect the cause of these young students, trying to fight back against the corruption of the monarchy. In fact, he might even have considered joining them, were it not for the fact that his fighting days are behind him - and the fact that he knows their cause is doomed. 

Perhaps if he shared their youthful idealism, if, like them, he was as yet undamaged by the world, he might be prepared to believe that they would win their fight. But, as it is, he understands the cold reality. The simple fact of the matter is that these boys do not have a chance - they are going to be outnumbered. No matter how noble and selfless their fight is, their idealism is going to lead them to their deaths. 

Henry only wishes he could warn them, stop them before it is too late. But he, of all people, knows how headstrong young men can be, particularly young men with a cause. He knows they’ll never listen to him. All he can do is make sure that his own sons, at least, stay well away. He will  _ not  _ lose his boys to this. 

Henry’s thoughts are interrupted by a sudden tug on his sleeve. He turns to see a tall, thin man, stooped over in an unconvincingly obsequious bow so that his face is hidden under his cap. 

“Please, Monsieur,” the thin man croons. “Will you come over this way? I have a child, he ain’t eaten today. Please, Monsieur…God rewards all the good that you do.” 

Henry frowns slightly. Something seems off about this man, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. Perhaps he is just being overly paranoid. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time, after everything that has happened to him, as George is so often reminding him. And it would be churlish of him, surely, to refuse charity to a sick child, simply because he is being paranoid. After all,  _ he _ is hardly lacking in funds. 

Reluctantly, he follows where the man is beckoning him, a little further away from the middle of the path. 

As he watches the man limp ahead of him, Henry feels his sense of unease increase. That is not how a person who  _ truly  _ has a limp would walk. He should know. But why on earth should this man pretend to be lame if he is not? 

Once they get to a shadowy corner a little further from the street, the thin man turns around to face him again. He lifts his head up slightly, so that Henry gets a good glimpse of his face. There is a greedy malice there, and Henry feels another jolt of alarm as he realises how familiar the man looks….

“Thank you for your charity, Monsieur,” the thin man croons. “The amount I ask for is very reasonable, Monsieur, only….”

He stops abruptly, staring in shock as he properly takes Henry in.

“Wait a bit….” the man says slowly. “Know that face...I’d know who you are anywhere….why, you’re the bastard who robbed me of that little servant girl! You’re the bastard who took Mina away from my house!” 

As soon as he says the words, it all comes flooding back to Henry in a rush. The filthy, dingy little tavern. The reek of stale beer in the air. The drunkards lying sprawled, semi-conscious, across the tiny wooden tables. 

Two little blonde girls - one, the innkeeper’s daughter, only about nine but with a look in her eyes that told Henry all too clearly she had been forced to grow into an adult long before her time. 

The other blonde girl had been so thin her arms and legs had seemed like twigs that might snap at the smallest pressure - dressed in ragged grey clothing, trembling like a leaf and cowering away from the adults around her. There had been nothing but fear in Mina’s blue eyes when Henry had first seen her. It was immediately obvious why the last thing her mother had requested of him, on her deathbed, was that he rescue her daughter from those who had promised to feed, clothe and protect her, but who instead spent their time bullying and abusing her. 

And this tall, thin man, with the cold and sharp greed in his face - this was the same innkeeper who, all those years ago, had bowed to him just as obsequiously as he had done a few moments ago, ushering him into a chair and offering to take his coat as he had asked what brought Monsieur to this humble abode. As soon as Henry had explained that he had been sent by Mina’s mother to fetch her, this man had begun naming ridiculous expenses that apparently needed to be covered before he could allow Mina to be taken. Realising that arguing with the man would be more trouble than it was worth, and knowing that his priority had to be to get Mina out of there as he’d promised her mother, Henry had paid what he’d asked for despite knowing how extortionate it was. 

But he had been followed that night, as he and Mina started on the journey back home, towards the boys who would become her brothers. He had managed to shake the pursuer off - the man was clearly not quite as cunning as he believed himself - and he had never actually caught a glimpse of him. But Henry knew all along that it had been the innkeeper in pursuit. 

Staring back at the man now, Henry sees rage and hatred etched into every line of his face. He swallows. 

“It was you who followed us that night,” he says quietly. It’s not a question. “You followed us away from your inn.” 

The innkeeper bares his teeth. “It was  _ you  _ who robbed me that night, Monsieur,” he growls. “You cheated me, swindled my servant girl away from me!”

“Servant?” Henry responds, struggling to keep his face neutral, not to show this man how uneasy he is. “I was not under the impression that you ever bothered to pay Mina for her services to you.” 

The innkeeper sneers, taking a step closer. Henry stands his ground, lifting his chin up and firmly reminding himself that he is - or at least was - a military man. 

“Besides which,  _ Monsieur _ ,” he goes on, injecting as much sarcasm into the seemingly respectful address as he can, “I certainly did  _ not  _ cheat you that night. I made a promise to that girl’s mother that I would fetch her. She knew how you were treating her. And I paid you when I took her away - a generous amount, a  _ ridiculous _ amount, in fact, far more than you deserved, I should say.” 

“A  _ generous  _ amount?” the innkeeper sneers. “No, Monsieur, far from it...Robbed me blind is what you did...I was a fool not to demand more from you that day. But now.... _ Now  _ you will pay me what I am owed, Monsieur!”

“I think you’ll find that I will not give you even a single coin,” Henry answers firmly, looking at the man with as much contempt as he can muster, as though he is a piece of dirt he found on the bottom of his shoe. 

Before Henry can blink, the innkeeper has taken out a small, gleaming knife, seemingly from nowhere, and stepped right up into his personal space, grabbing him by the collar, breathing his foul breath in his face. 

“I think you’ll find that you  _ will  _ give me what I am owed,  _ Monsieur _ ,” the man sneers. “That is, unless you would prefer to feel my blade.” 

Henry feels his breath catch in his throat. “You’re  _ insane _ ,” he whispers. 

The innkeeper grins - if one could really call it that. He looks more like a wolf baring its teeth. “Perhaps,” he says with a small shrug. “Now, if you please. My money, Monsieur. Now.” 

“I told you, I’m not - “ Henry begins. The man shrugs again.

“Suit yourself, Monsieur,” he says, raising the knife towards Henry’s face. 

Henry reacts on instinct, action coming before conscious thought. Though this vicious bastard might not know it, it is hardly the first time he has found himself in a life-threatening situation. 

Before the blade can make contact with his skin, Henry reaches out and grabs the innkeeper’s arm firmly, sharply twisting the knife away. The man seems completely taken off-guard, as though the possibility that Henry might know how to fight back had simply not occurred to him. Taking advantage of his shock, Henry shoves him away with all of his strength. 

The innkeeper stumbles, completely losing his balance and sprawling hard and painfully onto the ground, the knife flying out of his hand. 

Henry does not stop to look back, or wait to see how badly the man is hurt. Panting with exertion, he stumbles away from the scene as fast as he can, leaving the innkeeper sprawled on the ground behind him. He ducks down a twisting side alley, and then another, then another, shaking and unsteady on his wooden leg. 

* * *

  
  


Alfred can’t quite believe he’s back in this tavern, back for another meeting, only the next night. And he’s come of his own volition. He can’t even pretend that George dragged him this time, though of course his brother was perfectly happy to sneak out with him again, leaving Mina to cover for them with their father, who had seemed even more on edge than usual. 

If someone had told Alfred only two days ago that he was about to start going,  _ willingly _ , to meetings where ridiculously idealistic students were planning a revolution, he would probably have laughed hollowly and insisted that person was insane. 

And yet, here he is. Again. And it’s all because of  _ him _ . 

He watches as Edward Drummond darts around the tavern, seemingly everywhere at once. 

One moment, he is poring over the maps of Paris lying on one of the tables, murmuring to the others sitting around the map and pointing out streets that might make a strategic base in which to build a barricade. The next moment, he is scribbling down notes about the equipment and weapons that they still need to collect, chewing on his bottom lip thoughtfully in a way that causes a little quiver of heat deep in Alfred’s stomach. A moment later, he is placing a hand on another man’s shoulder, smiling, speaking to them in a low murmur, clearly doing his best to reassure and encourage. 

He just has so much  _ energy _ , so much  _ faith,  _ and Alfred is finding that he can scarcely seem to tear his eyes away. 

Edward Drummond seems to bring light and warmth with him wherever he goes - and apparently, Alfred notices with a twinge of jealousy, he is not the only one to have noticed this. The ragged young blonde woman - Florence, he thinks? - seems to be constantly at his side, like a shadow, or perhaps more like a moth drawn to a flame. Alfred only met Edward yesterday, but already he thinks he understands that feeling, the feeling of needing to stay close to him, to share his warmth. That’s why he’s here. 

It’s difficult to believe that he only met this beautiful man last night. He’s in deep. 

Alfred blinks, realising suddenly that Edward is walking over towards him and George (who’s been sitting quietly and concernedly at his side), Florence still hovering at his shoulder. Edward shoots Alfred a little smile, and Alfred feels once again as though he’s been momentarily dazzled by sunlight.

“Are you alright, Alfred? And George?” Edward hastily adds George’s name, as though it was an afterthought. 

“Yes, we’re alright,” Alfred responds after a moment, his heart thumping again from Edward Drummond’s mere closeness. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“Well, it’s just…you seem to be rather isolating yourself here in the corner with that drink, Alfred,” Edward says hesitantly, nodding at the tankard in Alfred’s hand, apparently momentarily forgetting George’s presence again. “I just noticed that you have joined us again tonight, but you are not truly  _ joining  _ us. Is there a reason for that?”

Alfred flushes, averting his eyes. 

Truth be told, he has been hovering in the corner because he feels rather awkward and out of place here. All the other men here - they truly believe they can make the world a better place. They’re willing to fight for it, come what may. And as for Edward himself…he’s passionate. He’s brave. He brings light to everyone around him. He’s  _ incredible _ . 

Alfred wants - no, perhaps even  _ needs  _ \- to be near Edward. But what can he possibly offer, how can he ever be any use to him, or to anyone here? He’s damaged, he’s fragile. As Edward seems to somehow instinctively understand, he  _ wants  _ to have faith in something, to be able to hope again. But…the very idea is terrifying. He could try to take a leap of faith - but then, what if he were to fall? He’s already been badly wounded - can he truly risk something that might shatter him? 

The problem is, he’s not like Edward. He doesn’t think he knows how to be brave. If he knew how to be brave, wouldn’t he have done something to avenge Alexandre by now, no matter how dangerous it might be?

He realises that Edward is still looking at him expectantly with a small smile on his face, waiting for an answer, while George, as usual, is watching him with concern. 

Alfred swallows. He really doesn’t know how to explain any of this to Edward Drummond. 

“It’s just that...overthrowing tyranny, liberating the people of Paris, still seems to me rather an absurdly idealistic goal for anyone to set their heart on,” he answers hesitantly, still searching for the right words as he speaks. “I just...I’m not sure I particularly want to raise my hopes, and then get absolutely nothing in return for my trouble.” 

Edward raises an eyebrow, his dark eyes tracing over Alfred’s face. His smile has vanished. 

“Well, no change would  _ ever _ happen, if everyone were to decide that they could not set their hearts on anything because the risks were too great,” he says. Alfred thinks his voice sounds cooler than before. “But then, we are not  _ forcing  _ anyone to join our cause, Alfred. If someone was  _ truly  _ determined not to believe in a better world, then I think they would leave us to fight for our cause, and they would go back to their own life.  _ Passion  _ is what we need here, Alfred, not doubt and cynicism.” 

He reaches out to touch Alfred’s shoulder gently, and Alfred feels himself shiver as their eyes lock for a moment. Then Edward nods at him, draws his hand back, and moves away, walking back towards the table with the maps as somebody calls his name. 

As he watches Edward walk away, Alfred feels his heart sink through the floor, and he swallows, his throat prickling, fighting back tears. 

So Edward agrees with him. 

Everything he has been telling himself - that he’s a coward, that he’s broken, bitter and twisted, that he doesn’t belong here amongst these heroes, that he should go back to his lonely life and leave Edward and the others to fight for their cause - it seems that is exactly what Edward thinks of him, too. Hadn’t his words just now proved it? 

Here he is, desperate to be where Edward Drummond is, even though he hardly knows him, his whole being craving Edward’s light and warmth. But apparently, Edward does not feel the same at all. Edward thinks he’s only holding everyone else back. 

Alfred stares over at him, watching him calmly reassure people as they ask his advice. Edward Drummond is a natural-born leader, a hero. Edward certainly doesn’t need the likes of  _ him  _ weighing him down. And he’s made that clear. 

He doesn’t want Alfred to be here. 

“George,” he whispers to his brother, eyes still resting on Edward, his throat thick with unshed tears. “I came to the meeting like you asked - in fact, I came to two. But I think I’ve had enough now. Let’s go home.”

“Alfred…” George says gently, reaching out to him tentatively. But Alfred shrugs his hand away.

“I  _ said _ , let’s go home.” 

George hesitates, but stands up quietly, recognising the stubborn look on his brother’s face. 

Alfred glances over to check that Edward is still occupied, and then, tugging George with him, he slips quietly out of the tavern. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: these boys are gonna be a bit of a mess in this 'verse....
> 
> As always, comments and kudos absolutely make my day!! <3 <3 <3 xxx


	4. Little He Knows, Little He Sees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward reflects on how meeting Alfred has changed everything for him.   
Florence agrees to deliver a message - but a few chance meetings may throw her plans awry....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand I'm back! I apologise in advance for all the angst!   
For those who are not so familiar with Les Mis, Florence is heavily channelling Eponine Thenardier in this fic - so you may notice that she's a little bit more morally ambiguous than she is in my main fic Not Altogether Respectable! (Though obviously, I still love her and would happily fight for her....)
> 
> Anyways, on with Chapter 4 - I hope you enjoy!

Edward has never met anybody quite like Alfred Paget. 

For one thing, Alfred is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most beautiful man that Edward has ever laid eyes on. 

With his golden hair that seems to glow when it catches the candlelight, his porcelain skin, those long, delicate eyelashes that flutter down to rest on his pale cheek, and the way he looks up from under those eyelashes with eyes that make Edward feel he’s falling through the sky, perhaps it’s no wonder that Edward had felt his heart skip several beats the first time he had laid eyes on Alfred. For the first time he could remember, Edward had completely lost his train of thought for a moment last night when he had suddenly seen Alfred looking at him. In that moment, there had been nothing and nobody else in the world but him. 

Edward has always known that there is something.... _ different _ about him. Despite the fact that they often seem to cling to him and coo at him, no woman has ever had any effect whatsoever on his heart, and he has never had the slightest desire to bed any woman he’s ever met. In fact, apart from Florence and his instinctive brotherly urge to protect her, he has never even had much idea how to  _ speak  _ to women, much less flirt with them. Ernest, his friend from university who has followed him to revolution, is forever teasing him about his incompetence. 

Edward had always just assumed that he was never going to fall in love with anybody, never going to feel that sensation of his heart pounding uncontrollably that his friends often spoke of, for the simple reason that politics would always be his one and only love. He had always prided himself on his certainty, his purpose, his ability to ignore distractions. 

But then, last night, Alfred Paget had wandered into the ABC Cafe, standing in the corner and staring at him as though he was drinking in the sight of him. And, in a moment, without warning, his entire world seems to have turned upside down. 

It’s not just that Alfred is astonishingly beautiful, though. Ever since he’d walked in and Edward had looked up to meet his startingly blue eyes, he’s had the strangest sensation that he knows him, that he’s been looking for Alfred Paget all these years without even knowing it. 

On the surface of it, perhaps it doesn’t make any sense for him to feel such a connection to this man. After all, Alfred insists that he does not believe in the revolution. According to Alfred, the cause that Edward is dedicating his life to is doomed, and Edward’s passion is futile. If Edward were to glance quickly at Alfred without looking properly, perhaps he might actually believe what Alfred clearly  _ wants  _ people to believe - that he’s a cynical drunkard, that nothing affects him, that he doesn’t actually care about anything. 

But the thing is, Edward  _ doesn’t  _ believe any of that. He isn’t quite sure how he knows it, but he does know - Alfred  _ does  _ care. He cares so much that it hurts him. He cares so much that he’s scared to care any more. Alfred Paget is clearly desperate to have faith in something again - but somewhere, somehow, he’s been damaged, and now he’s afraid to break. 

He has an overwhelming instinct to help Alfred, to protect him from being hurt again - but at the same time, he’s desperate to encourage him, to reassure him. He wants - no,  _ needs _ \- to show Alfred the world and its possibilities. He needs to wake him up, to stop him from being afraid. Alfred needs to understand the power and the passion that he is capable of. 

Edward thinks back to the look in Alfred’s eyes a few moments ago, hope mingled with fear. He was still claiming that he did not believe,  _ could  _ not believe in the revolution. But Edward saw through him, and had tried to encourage him, reminding him that if he  _ truly  _ did not believe, he would not have come back to them, but would have left them to their cause and gone back to his life. After all, there had to be  _ something  _ drawing Alfred back to this place. 

Edward turns instinctively back to the corner where Alfred was standing with his brother moments ago, wanting to encourage him, reassure him with a smile. 

He feels his stomach drop through the floor as he sees that the place where Alfred was standing is empty. His gaze scans round the tiny tavern frantically - but it’s quickly evident that Alfred and his brother are nowhere to be seen. 

They’ve gone.

Edward feels suddenly as though somebody has given him a heavy blow to the stomach, and he lets out a small gasp before he can help himself. Surely, he cannot have lost Alfred already, so soon after finding him? 

Though he was not particularly loud, his gasp apparently doesn’t go unnoticed by the huddle of people surrounding him. In a moment, it seems that all eyes are turned on him in concern. 

“Edward?” Florence prompts quietly, standing like a second shadow at his side as always. She seems to have a particular knack for seeing him, noticing when something’s not right. 

“Alfred,” he blurts before he can stop himself. Florence tilts her head slightly, and something seems to tighten in her face. 

“I...I mean,” he covers, “I didn’t see where Alfred Paget - and his brother of course - where they…where they went. Have they gone? Are they still here? I can’t see them....”

He curses himself as he feels the heat rush to his face. How is it that he is normally renowned for his articulacy, and now he can scarcely seem to string a coherent sentence together? 

“They must have gone, Edward,” Ernest says with a shrug. 

Edward feels unease twisting in his stomach. “But why? Why would they just suddenly leave like that? Without saying anything? Without explaining  _ why _ ?” 

He’s being ridiculous, some part of him knows that. He didn’t even know that Alfred Paget  _ existed  _ until yesterday. But somehow, now that he has met him, he knows instinctively that he doesn’t want to be without him.    
Francatelli frowns slightly. “But didn’t you just  _ tell  _ them they should go, Drummond?” 

Edward stares at him, baffled. “What? No, of course not! Why would I tell Alfred he should leave? I mean, why would I tell  _ any  _ new recruit to leave?” he adds hastily. It probably would not do to let everyone here know just how much  _ this  _ new recruit means to him already. 

“You said, if anyone was determined not to believe in a better world, then they would leave us to fight for our cause, and go back to their own life,” Ernest pipes up. 

“I was making a point!” Edward insists indignantly, hearing the panic creeping into his own voice. “I was trying to tell him that evidently he  _ does  _ believe, at least a little - or else he would have kept to himself and he would never have come back for a second meeting! I was trying to encourage him!”

“Well, that’s not what it sounded like to me, Drummond,” Ernest responds with another shrug. “Sounded to me like you were telling him he should go if he didn’t have anything useful to contribute. Probably sounded that way to him, too.” 

Edward swallows, feeling a cold and crawling sensation of guilt. “You...you really think Alfred thought I was telling him to leave?”

Ernest’s frown deepens slightly. “Well…yes.” 

“But I...no, that’s not what I meant at all!” Edward cries before he can stop himself. He can feel the eyes on him, hear the low muttering - but he can’t bring himself to care. He is breathing fast now, tears of shame beginning to sting at the back of his eyes, and he can’t seem to marshal his thoughts. 

“He can’t...I shouldn’t have....I need to find him…”

He is on his feet before he’s even aware of what he’s doing, fully intending to run out into the street after Alfred, despite some distant, small part of him reminding him that he barely even  _ knows _ the man.

Ernest pushes him gently back down, looking concerned at his sudden recklessness. 

“Sit down, Drummond,” he says. “Your place is here, with the revolution. We need you. You know that.”

“I know that,” Edward says, frowning back at him, his heart rate still pounding, struggling to focus on anything that isn’t Alfred. Why doesn’t Ernest  _ understand _ ? Why does  _ nobody  _ seem to understand? “I wasn’t suggesting that I’m going to leave you to fight alone, of course I’m not. I just meant....I need to find Alfred, make sure…”

Make sure of what? He hardly knows himself - he just knows that he absolutely can’t bear the thought of Alfred out there alone, believing that he, Edward, has no faith in him. The image of Alfred’s despair makes him shiver, as though all the candles in the room have suddenly been extinguished. 

“No, you really  _ don’t  _ need to find him, Drummond,” Albert cuts in. “I know you think you need to take care of the whole world - but you certainly don’t need to take care of  _ him _ . He’s not your responsibility. He doesn’t care about our cause and he doesn’t believe in it anyway - I heard him say so himself. Just let him wallow in self-pity and ignore the world around him if he wants to, that’s his problem.”

Edward opens his mouth to argue, but Ernest cuts him off gently. 

“You don’t have to save everyone, Drummond. And we need you here.” 

Edward swallows and nods, feeling his throat burning with tears. They’re right, he  _ should  _ stay - these men are looking to him, he cannot just abandon them and run off to find Alfred. 

“I - I just…” Edward’s voice is cracked with the effort of restraining his tears, and he clears his throat, trying to force them back. “I just need him to know…”

“I can find him,” Florence says suddenly, quietly, as though she can’t quite believe she is saying it, and Edward turns to face her. “If you want to write something down for him, Edward, then you can stay here and I can deliver it to him. I’ll find him, I promise.” 

Edward stares at her. “You....you would do that for me, Florence?”

She swallows slightly, as though there are thousands of things she wants to say, and she is fighting them all back. In the end, she simply nods, her jaw set, her face pale but utterly determined. 

Unexpectedly, Edward feels a smile beginning to creep across his face, his chest feeling lighter already. Really, what has he done to deserve such a friend as Florence?

Instinctively, he reaches out to squeeze her hand gently. “Thank you so much, Florence,” he murmurs. “You’re the best friend I could ever ask for.” 

He feels her hand twitch in his, and she inhales slightly before offering him a smile - though Edward notices that it doesn’t quite seem to reach her eyes. 

“Well?” she says. “What are you waiting for? Haven’t you got a letter to write, Edward?” 

He shakes himself. “Right…yes...just give me a moment…” 

And, doing his best to ignore the muttering and the silent, judgmental looks around him, he hurries off to find pen and parchment. 

* * *

Florence can’t really believe she’s doing this.

This mysterious and beautiful blond man, Alfred Paget, seems to have somehow managed to enchant Edward already, to ensnare him. Edward had seemed barely able to look away from him earlier, and then his panic when he had noticed Alfred was gone was so badly hidden that Florence thinks he might as well have climbed up on a chair and announced to the entire tavern that he is besotted. 

Despite how long they’ve known each other, despite everything they’ve been through and the amount of times Edward has been there for her when nobody else has, it seems he has barely looked at her, or even acknowledged her existence, since Alfred Paget walked into the tavern. 

Whether deliberately or not, this stranger has come between her and Edward. Florence doesn’t really know anything about him - but, if she’s honest with herself, she thinks she might hate him, at least a little. Or at least, she certainly doesn’t want him anywhere near Edward. 

And yet, right now, she’s hurrying along dark streets, in the cold rain, looking for him. Because she promised Edward she would find him. 

She’s not quite sure what made her say that to Edward. Perhaps it’s just that she can’t bear to see the hurt and the fear on his face. She’s used to him being the strong one. It feels strange and unnatural, seeing Edward looking so vulnerable. It makes her want to hold him, soothe him, stroke his hair - even as bitter envy twists in her stomach, knowing that it’s worry about Alfred Paget that’s making him so afraid. She wonders if Edward would be this worried if  _ she  _ went missing. 

He certainly didn’t seem worried about Florence searching through the dark streets, alone. But she’s used to it, and she supposes Edward knows that. 

This is what she’s been taught, for as long as she can remember. Florence knows her way around the dark warrens of Paris’s winding side alleys, she can look at the way a person is dressed, their mannerisms, how much of a rush they’re in, and guess where they’re heading to. She knows how to tail someone without being spotted. She knows how to take money from somebody’s purse so silently that they notice nothing - she even knows how to corner someone and draw a weapon so suddenly that they won’t know what’s happening. 

Not that she has ever done that herself. But she has certainly watched her father do it, hating him all the while. Hating the life he has forced her to lead. 

Alfred and George Paget, as it turns out, are not very difficult to follow. Florence could tell immediately from their clothing, the way they spoke, and their apparent unease in the ABC Cafe, that they come from the wealthier side of town - so that is the direction she heads in. She knows which people to ask for information, she knows what to say to get them to talk. And the two men don’t have too much of a head start on her anyway.

Florence catches sight of them once she has crossed over into the wealthier part of town, the streets where she knows she does not belong. 

She hangs back slightly so the two men don’t notice her, tightening her grip on the letter she’s clutching, the letter Edward told her to give to Alfred Paget. She watches him hurry through the streets ahead of her, head down, shoulders bent. He looks defeated. Florence feels a surge of bitter anger course through her. Why should  _ he  _ look so upset, when  _ he’s  _ the one that’s taken Edward away from  _ her _ ? Surely he knows that Edward is already besotted with him? Surely, he doesn’t  _ actually  _ believe that Edward was telling him to go?

She knows she could just call out to Alfred now, stop him in his tracks and hand over Edward’s letter, then turn and walk away from all of this. But bitter envy coils in her chest, holding her back. She can’t let Alfred Paget see how humiliated she is, not just that Edward has chosen him over her, but that she’s _ still  _ carrying Edward’s messages around for him, despite that, because there is nothing she would not do for Edward Drummond. 

And so, she stays silent, following Alfred and George at a distance. 

She stays back, hovering in the shadows as the two men approach a beautiful old stone mansion, with ivy falling gracefully over the tall wrought-iron gate.  _ Of course _ , Florence thinks to herself bitterly, looking down at the ground and clenching her fists slightly.  _ He has every privilege that money can buy - and yet he still gets Edward Drummond’s adoration on top of it all.  _

She swallows sharply, trying to fight back her envy. Forcing herself back to the present, she realises suddenly that, in her split second of distraction, Alfred and George Paget have already unlocked the gate and slipped through into the house, closing it again behind them. And she still hasn’t given Alfred Edward’s letter - hell, he still has no clue she’s even there!

Florence runs silently forwards to the gate, pushing against it. It’s locked behind them. She curses herself under her breath. She knows some tricks to get past locked doors - like every other dishonest and unsavoury skill she has, she learnt from her father - but she hasn’t got the right tools on her. Besides, she knows she should not be breaking and entering - she’s sure Edward would want Alfred Paget to know that she comes in peace. 

Florence steps back a little from the gate, her gaze scanning the imposing facade of the house, panic beginning to rise in her chest. She  _ promised  _ Edward that she would deliver the letter, how can she go back and tell him that she’s failed, that she was stupid enough to completely miss her chance and let Alfred slip away before he’d even seen her?!

She looks towards the downstairs window closest to her. Perhaps Alfred and George have not gone upstairs yet? Perhaps she can still gain their attention?

Instinctively, Florence reaches down towards the ground, her fingers closing on a small, smooth round pebble. She throws it gently at the window, praying she won’t break the glass, praying that Alfred will notice and come back outside.

She thinks she hears a movement from inside when the pebble taps against the glass. She waits for a moment, heart pounding, but nobody comes. Perhaps Alfred heard the noise, but he thinks he imagined it? Breathing hard, scarcely believing her own foolhardiness, Florence bends down to pick up another pebble, flinging it at the window rather harder than she intended to in her panic. She curses to herself again, realising that this time she has smashed a small hole in the window. 

This time there are definite, hurried movements from inside - but it is not Alfred or even George who pushes the window open and leans out into the night. 

“Alfred? Are you drunk again? Have you two managed to lock yourselves out or something? But I thought I just heard you come in? What are you - oh!”

The young blonde woman stops in shock as she notices Florence, and as she lifts a candle so that she can see better, Florence feels a jolt of recognition, mirrored in the other woman’s eyes. 

It’s been ten years since Florence last saw Mina, the girl her parents had taken in, the girl whose mother they’d wrung every last coin from, driving the mother to her deathbed with exhaustion and despair while they exploited the daughter and worked her to the bone. The last time Florence saw Mina, she  _ was  _ nothing but skin and bones, dressed in grey rags, eyes seeming too big for her small pale face, so fragile-looking she seemed as if she might snap at the smallest pressure. Back then, Florence had often thought of her as a tiny bird, longing to sing and fly, but trapped in a cage. 

But it had never really occurred to Florence to help her. Oh, she had seen what Mina had suffered through. But it seemed that every moment her father was torturing and humiliating Mina, he had not been torturing and humiliating  _ her _ . And so it had never occurred to her to speak out.

Then, of course, the day had come when a strange man with a pronounced limp and a kind face had arrived. He’d said he had been sent by Mina’s dying mother to collect her. There was a brief conversation between the strange kind man and Florence’s father, an exchange of money (not enough to satisfy her father, of course, but it never was) - and then, just like that, the fragile little bird of a girl was taken away, gone from Florence’s life. Florence had never discovered the name of the man who had rescued Mina, but over the next few years, she had certainly lost count of the times she had wished he could have taken  _ her _ with him too. For it seemed that, with Mina gone, Florence’s father focused all of his rage and viciousness on her - there was nobody to share the burden. Florence never had any idea what sort of life Mina had gone to. But she had always known it could not be worse than the life she had been taken away from. The life that Florence is still stuck with. 

It’s never really occurred to Florence to ask after Mina, to try and find her or discover what her life is like now, how she’s changed. But she would never have imagined that, if she  _ did  _ ever find her again, it would be like  _ this _ . 

It’s difficult to comprehend that this petite, graceful little woman, dressed in a fine silk blue gown which perfectly matches her eyes, was once that tiny, shivering and terrified girl, dressed in rags and clutching a stick because it was the closest thing she had to a doll. But there is no denying that this is Mina - those wide blue eyes alone would have given her away, even without the instant expression of recognition when her gaze landed on Florence. Florence can hardly believe that, after all these years, she has found the girl who was even more of a victim in her father’s house than she was, who spent years of her childhood cowering away from blows, scrounging for scraps of pity where there were none to be found. And now here she is - dressed in silk, leaning out of the window of this beautiful old stone house, clearly feeling perfectly at home here. And now it’s Florence who is dressed in rags, standing in the dark cold street, hovering in the shadows and locked out of the warmth.  _ God, look what’s become of me _ , she thinks to herself bitterly. 

To her surprise, Florence feels her heart suddenly skip a beat as she takes Mina in properly. Her skin is smooth and pale as porcelain, her long golden hair gathered into a bun at the back of her neck, a few soft tendrils escaping and curling gently around her neck. Tiny little pearl earrings are dangling from her lobes, making her seem even more delicate. Somehow, Florence had never expected her to grow up to be this beautiful. 

She feels heat flooding her face as she stares at the young woman at the window. Mina clearly recognises her just as clearly - surely she remembers perfectly the years when they were children together, all those years when Florence stood aside and did nothing to help, too afraid of her father to intervene. She feels her guilt and shame weighing down on her, heavy as a stone sitting in her stomach. 

How must Florence appear to Mina now, wearing this ragged and worn-out grey dress, hovering awkwardly in the shadows just beyond the gate, throwing stones at the window? She doesn’t belong here, that much is clear. In fact, she’s not even worthy to walk on this street. 

Mina slips quietly away from the window, closing it gently. For a split second, Florence thinks she has just vanished back into the house, that Mina is just going to pretend she never saw her. But a moment later, the front door opens, and Mina is walking up to the gate. She does not open it, but stops inches away from Florence on the other side, apparently hesitant about whether she should let her in. Mina raises her candle slightly higher. She seems somehow even more beautiful as its light flickers over her face. 

A silence settles between the two women like a blanket of snow, a silence that seems to stretch endlessly. There is just so much history between them, there are so many things to say. All of the apologies that Florence wants to offer seem to have become a tangle of meaningless words in her head, and she can’t decide what to say first. 

Mercifully, Mina breaks the silence first. “What are you doing here, Florence?” 

Florence sighs slightly in relief. So, Mina is acknowledging that she knows perfectly well who she is - but apparently, she’s making a deliberate choice not to dredge up the past, which gives Florence permission to follow her lead. 

She tries to focus on the question Mina asked her - after everything that’s happened, it takes her a moment to remember what she’s even doing there. She feels her heart sink further as she remembers again the weight of Edward’s letter in her hand, and what it means. 

“I...I have a letter to deliver to Alfred Paget,” she says awkwardly. “It’s from Edward Drummond.” 

Mina frowns slightly. “For Alfred?” Hesitantly, she reaches out slightly as though to take the letter from Florence’s grasp, and instinctively, Florence stretches out her arm to give it to her. 

Before she can hand the letter over, though, the two of them are interrupted by a sudden rustling, the sound of approaching footsteps, of male voices muttering to each other. One voice in particular is rising above the others, aggressive and menacing, and Florence whips around sharply. She recognises that voice. 

Tall, thin, creeping stealthily through the shadows of the night, Florence’s father is rapidly approaching the Paget house - and from the looks of it, he’s brought his gang of vicious, motley layabouts with him. Florence feels a chill go through her as she notices the various tools the men are carrying with them. They were never expecting to be permitted entrance to the house - this is clearly a planned robbery. 

She knows from experience that these men don’t have a single shred of conscience between them to hold them back, they will do  _ anything  _ for money - and her own father is the worst of them. 

“Ten years ago, this bastard came and took the girl from my house - robbed me, he did,” her father was muttering to the others. 

Florence glances back at Mina in alarm - evidently recognising her childhood tormentor, she has blown out her candle and melted back into the shadows on the other side of the gate. Florence can only just make out her outline, the candle trembling slightly in her shaking hand. She’s clearly terrified. 

“It’s taken me this long to find him - I tried to settle the debt when I saw him earlier today, but he got away,” her father hisses through clenched teeth. “Bastard nearly knocked me out cold, too. But he’s not getting away this time, I tell you....this will cost him dear.” 

“What do I care about what you’re owed, Kerr?” Florence hears one of the other men growl. “I don’t give a damn - let’s just finish this job, so you can give me  _ my  _ share that you promised!”

“Shut up,” Kerr snarls back at him. “You’ll get what’s yours. Just wait until - who’s this hussy?”

As Florence steps forward, shaking slightly, further from the gate and closer to her father and the other men, she is caught in the light of her father’s lantern. He squints at her as he raises the lantern higher so he can see her face clearly. 

“It’s  _ your  _ brat, Florence,” one of the other men grunts. “Don’t you know your own kid? Why’s she hanging about here?”

“Florence, get on home,” her father snarls at her, looking at her, as usual, as though she is a piece of dirt he found on the bottom of his shoe. “You’re not needed here.” 

Raising herself to her fullest height, her chin jutting out defiantly, Florence steps closer to him, praying that her face is not betraying the slightest bit of fear. 

“I know this house,” she lies. “There’s nothing here for you. Just the old man and his children. They live ordinary lives - they have nothing worth taking.” 

Her father barks a humourless laugh. “Don’t give me that shit, girl,” he says. “Why, you only need to take one glance at that house to know how much they’re worth. Besides, I saw the clothes Paget was wearing when we had our little....disagreement earlier. Believe me, there’s  _ plenty  _ I can take from that house. Now, you’re going to get your nose out of my affairs, girl, and you’re going to move away from that house before I  _ make  _ you move.” 

Florence swallows, her heart pounding. She doesn’t quite know what she’s going to do. All she knows is that she is done with following her father’s orders. She won’t let him control her life any longer, turn her into somebody who recoils from her own reflection.

She lifts her chin again, and looks him straight in the eye. 

“If you take one more step towards this gate,” she says, “I swear that I will scream. I will warn them out here.” She hears her own words as if from far away, as if somebody else is speaking.

Her father’s face contorts. His expression is ugly, frightening. He steps right up into Florence’s personal space, breathing hard, and, as usual, she can smell the stench of liquor on his breath. She keeps herself still, maintaining eye contact with him, utterly determined not to flinch. 

“One little scream, girl,” he says to her quietly, menace in every syllable, “and you’ll regret it for a year.” 

Before she can stop herself, Florence’s breath hitches - audibly - in fear. Her father smirks in triumph, realising that he has succeeded in scaring her. He scans his gaze over her, eyes darting down as he notices the letter that she is still clutching in her hand. “What’s this, then?” he demands. “Plotting against me now, girl? Delivering notes to Paget behind my back? I don’t think so!” 

And before Florence can stop him, he reaches out and wrenches the letter from her hand, tearing it slightly, and stuffing it unceremoniously into his own breast pocket. 

Florence stares at him for a moment, hardly believing what he has just snatched. Edward may have written that letter for Alfred Paget, and that knowledge may hurt - but the fact remains that  _ Edward Drummond _ wrote that letter, poured his heart and his thoughts into it. She watched him do it. And though this man may be her father, though he may be convinced that she owes him some measure of loyalty, she knows that he is not fit to lick the dirt from Edward’s shoes, much less to have Edward’s letter in his possession, to have access to the words which Edward so carefully crafted for someone else. 

She feels no fear at all now, only a red haze of rage which seems to bubble and boil under her skin. She’s never felt this much fury all at once - all she knows is that, at this moment, she will do anything to bring her father down. 

Florence glares at him fiercely and then, very deliberately, keeping eye contact with him, she opens her mouth and screams as loudly as she possibly can, louder than she’s ever screamed before, the sound of it reverberating down the entire street. 

Immediately, there are sounds of movement from the Paget house behind them, startled voices and lights flickering to life. 

Florence’s father curses loudly, knowing full well that there is no point in keeping his voice down any more, and no hope of sneaking into the house and taking Henry Paget by surprise. 

“Head for the sewers!” he snarls desperately to his men. “Hurry up, fools, he may call the Watch, they may already be on their way!”

The gang do not need telling twice, turning and fleeing into the shadows, a few of them so hasty that they leave some of their robbery tools behind them. 

Florence’s father turns back to her, fury written in every line of his face. 

“You wait, my girl,” he warns her. “You’ll rue this. You want to scream? Oh, I’ll make you scream, alright…”

He raises his fist high, preparing to strike her - but before he can swing his arm forward, Florence, acting on pure instinct, spits in his face. 

He stumbles back slightly, hand reaching up to wipe his face, his expression one of pure shock for a moment. His expression quickly morphs into rage once again - but the sounds of movements and voices are getting louder within the house, the lights are turning on downstairs, and he knows he can’t stay any longer if he doesn’t want to be seen. 

“You just wait…” he says, sounding rather impotent, still in shock, before stumbling off into the shadows after the other men. 

Still a little shocked at her own actions, Florence stands stock still for a moment, breathing heavily. She hears a quiet movement behind her, and turns to see that Mina has come back up to the gate, a mixture of pity and awe on her face. 

“Are you alright?” she murmurs.

“Fine,” Florence says shortly, although she’s not. Of course she’s not. She knows full well that she’s gone too far with her father now - there’s no way she can go back to that house, she’d be flayed within an inch of her life if she tried. God, judging from the look in his eyes just now, he might actually kill her. 

Where will she go? Perhaps she can move in with Edward, for a few days at least? But how could she bear that, knowing now that he has never loved her, that he prefers Alfred Paget? Can she really keep pretending to herself, humiliating herself?

Florence’s vision begins to blur slightly with tears, and she reaches up quickly to wipe them away, hoping Mina has not seen. 

“That was incredibly brave of you, you know,” Mina says quietly, gently. “Standing up to your father like that.” 

Florence gives a hollow laugh. “Yes, well, it was probably about time I stood up to my father, don’t you think?” she responds. “I should have been standing up to him  _ years _ ago, when....”

She trails off, her gaze darting anxiously across Mina’s beautiful porcelain face. Once again, the pain of their shared childhood memories seems to rise up like a wall between them, all those years when Mina was tormented and Florence did nothing to help her, and Florence feels shame as sharp as a knife. She can’t find the words to explain her guilt to Mina, she doesn’t know where to begin. 

“I’m...I’m sorry,” she mutters, hesitantly, awkwardly.

Mina meets her gaze, understanding and compassion in those mesmerising blue eyes. She does not need to ask what Florence is apologising for, it seems.

“It’s in the past,” she murmurs. 

Florence looks back at her, warm relief and gratitude coursing through her for a moment - but, before she can say anything more, the front door of the Paget mansion bursts open, and Florence is blinking slightly in the light as three men hurry out, each carrying a candle. 

She recognises Alfred and George Paget immediately, of course - the very sight of Alfred makes bitter resentment coil tightly in her stomach. An older man limps out behind them, leaning heavily on a stick - Florence recognises him too, although perhaps if she had not just seen Mina, it might have taken her a little longer to place him. 

This is the very same kind-faced man that Florence remembers from that day all those years ago, the one who handed the money over to her father and then took Mina away. It has to be said, though, that he does not look quite so kind at this moment - actually, he looks so fierce that it’s a little frightening. 

“Mina!” the man demands, making Mina jump slightly. He looks so much like Alfred and George that Florence can only assume he is their father. 

“Yes, Papa?” Mina asks, as though she is trying to stall for time.

“What on earth is going on? And at such an hour of the night? Who was that screaming?” He stops short as he catches sight of Florence, glaring at her suspiciously. “And what is  _ this  _ young woman doing here? Who is this?” 

Florence opens her mouth to respond, looking straight back at him without flinching, but to her surprise, Mina cuts in before she can answer.

“That was my scream you heard, Papa,” she says, and Florence stares at her, utterly taken aback by her lie. 

“ _ Your  _ scream?” Paget repeats, raising an eyebrow so high it nearly vanishes into his hairline.

“Yes,” Mina says apologetically, lowering her eyes. “I’m sorry, Papa, I did not mean to startle you. I could not sleep, and so I came out into the front garden to look at the stars for a bit. I caught sight of Florence standing at the gate, but I could not quite see who it was at first. I was frightened for a moment, and so I screamed.”

Her adoptive father scans his eyes over her face for a moment, evidently still doubtful about this account of the night’s events. He turns and looks suspiciously at Florence again, frowning even more deeply.

“Florence, did you say? So you are already acquainted with this young woman then, Mina?”

Mina hesitates. “Yes, Papa. Florence and I were children together. Before you came.” 

Florence watches as understanding and surprised recognition dawns on his face for a moment, before his expression returns to suspicious hostility. 

“So, you’re  _ his  _ daughter, then? Kerr? The innkeeper?” 

“If it’s all the same to you, I would prefer  _ not  _ to be associated with that man in any way, Monsieur,” Florence responds coldly. “I am here on my own business.”

“Oh?” Henry asks, raising his eyebrows again. “And what business might that be, Mademoiselle, that requires you to loiter at my gate in the middle of the night and terrify my daughter?” 

Florence swallows, glancing over at Alfred, still hovering with George at their father’s side. “I was told to deliver a message to you, Monsieur,” she says, inclining her head slightly in Alfred’s direction. “It is from Edward Drummond.”

“Edward Drummond?” Alfred’s father asks, clearly lost, but Alfred stiffens immediately with a small intake of breath, longing and fear written across his face in equal measure. 

“A message?” he croaks, sounding as though his mouth has gone dry. “What is the message?” 

Florence hesitates, remembering that, amidst all the chaos, her father had ripped Edward’s letter from her grasp. She never read it, but she knows the essentials of what Edward was trying to say - he’s sorry for causing a misunderstanding, he never wanted to hurt Alfred, he believes in him and wants him to come back to the meetings. She could just explain all of that to Alfred now.

But as she looks at him, and the longing in his eyes, Florence feels cold envy coiling deep in her stomach again, twisting like a constricting snake. She can almost taste her own resentment, sharp and bitter on her tongue. 

She has no shelter to go back to anymore - if it were not for trying to deliver Edward’s letter to this man, she might never have had the confrontation with her father that will guarantee she is now shut out of her house for good. But she does not care about that, that is  _ nothing  _ compared to losing Edward. If this man had not decided to come to the ABC Cafe, she might never have lost Edward Drummond in the first place.

What right does Alfred Paget have to look so hopeful and longing? He has Edward’s love - which means that he has everything, and she has  _ nothing _ . 

Perhaps, Florence realises, it is not so terrible that she has no letter to give to Alfred. Perhaps her father has unwittingly given her an opportunity. 

“I no longer have the letter on me, I lost it. I’m sorry,” she says, knowing that she does not sound sorry at all. 

“But I know what it said. Edward wrote to tell you that he had a discussion with the other men, and between them they have decided that you and your brother are no longer welcome at their meetings at the ABC Cafe. Edward wanted to let you know that if you refuse to have faith, then he does not want either of you joining the revolution. He believes that, if you do, you may turn traitor to their cause.” 

She watches as an expression of hurt and despair falls over Alfred’s face. His entire body seems to sag slightly, as though he is wishing he could sink through the ground, and he blinks rapidly, fighting back the tears that she can already see glistening in his blue eyes. He swallows. “I see,” he says, his voice choked. 

Some small, vicious part of Florence feels smug and triumphant - but the greater part of her recoils, feeling shame twisting inside her like a knife yet again. God, perhaps she really  _ is  _ her father’s daughter. Already she wants to take that cruel lie back - but how can she do that now? 

“‘ _ No longer welcome at their meetings? _ ’” Alfred’s father echoes, turning slowly towards his sons as rage gathers across his face like a storm cloud. And then the storm bursts, his fury breaking as he shouts at Alfred and George. “I thought I  _ very clearly  _ told you two to  _ stay away  _ from that dangerous nonsense! Don’t you  _ ever  _ listen to me? Do you think I  _ want  _ to see my sons get themselves killed?”

Mina and George both flinch from his rage, but Alfred, his eyes filled with tears, barely even seems to register his father’s anger. 

“Don’t worry, Papa,” he mutters. “There is no need for you to warn me away now.” 

He turns back to look at Florence.

“You can deliver this message to Edward Drummond,” he tells her bitterly. “I shall not go where I am not wanted.”

Before anyone can stop him, before Florence even understands what’s happening, Alfred unlocks the front gate, slips through, slams it behind him with an echoing clang, and runs off down the street, turning a corner and quickly disappearing into the darkness. 

George swears loudly as Mina gasps in dismay. Florence stands there, frozen in horror at what she has done. 

“Are you happy now?” George demands angrily of Florence. “My brother is fragile and erratic at the best of times - God knows how long it will take us to find him, God knows what he’s going to do!”

“It won’t do any good to stand here and shout at her,” his father says, his face a mask of worry as he looks down the street where Alfred disappeared. “Take your lantern with you, George - you and I are going to look for him and find him before he gets hurt.” George swallows and nods obediently. 

“Mina,” Paget continues, turning to her. “You are going to stay here in the house, where it’s safe. George and I are going to bring Alfred back as soon as we can.” 

Mina hesitates, but nods reluctantly. 

Her father turns back to Florence, cold anger written in every line of his dignified face. 

“As for you, Mademoiselle Kerr,” he says quietly, “I think you have brought quite enough trouble to my house for one night.” Florence shivers under his cold glare. “Mina,” he continues, without looking away from Florence. “Please make sure that you show this young woman out.” 

With one last glare, he turns away and gestures to George. George nods, and, within seconds, the two men have opened the front gate again, and slipped past Florence with their lanterns, following Alfred into the night. 

Once again, there is a tense and heavy silence hanging between Mina and Florence as they stare at each other. The gate is still swinging open; George and his father did not bother to close it behind them. 

“You were lying, weren’t you?” Mina murmurs quietly, breaking the silence between them. 

Florence blinks. “What?”

“You were lying, just now, when you spoke to Alfred,” Mina says, more loudly and firmly, determinedly keeping eye contact. “I don’t believe that Edward Drummond wanted my brother to leave. I don’t believe the letter said those things.”

Florence stares at her, lost for words for a moment. 

“Well...you were lying too,” she says at last, defensively. “You lied to your father, you told him it was  _ you  _ who screamed and not me!”

Mina shrugs, a faint pink blush staining her cheek, and despite herself Florence feels her heart skip another beat. “I didn’t want to worry him,” she explains. “Our father is paranoid at the best of times - if he knew what happened tonight, God knows what he would have done. But you drove them off, thank goodness.”

Florence winces. She’s not at all convinced that her father is finished here. 

Mina looks at her, her beautiful face stern. “But we were talking about  _ you _ , Florence, not me,” she says. “If you knew Alfred like I do, you would be able to see how fragile he is. From what I can tell, Edward Drummond is the only person who has given him any spark of hope in  _ years.  _ So  _ why _ , Florence? Why did you lie to him? Why did you hurt him like that?” 

Shame, resentment, envy and self-loathing swirl inside her as she looks at Mina - and then the dam bursts, and she can’t hold it in any longer. 

“Because Edward Drummond is  _ mine _ !” she cries bitterly, the words spilling out before she can stop them. “Your brother Alfred is taking what is  _ mine! _ You were rescued, Mina, you were taken into a loving family - you do not understand what it’s like! I have nobody else in this world. Nobody cares, nobody has ever cared, except for him. If I do not even have Edward, then, once again...I am nothing.” 

Mina gazes at Florence as she juts out her chin defiantly, angrily blinking back her tears. There is no longer any trace of anger or judgement on Mina’s face - Florence can see nothing but compassion in her eyes. There is a moment of silence between them, before Mina speaks, looking as though she is choosing her words carefully.

“Please do not say such things, Florence,” she murmurs quietly. “You are certainly  _ not  _ nothing. You could never be nothing.”

Florence shakes her head, trying to swallow back her unshed tears. “I  _ am  _ nothing,” she responds. “All my life, I have been told that I am nothing.” 

Mina looks at her for a moment, tilting her head slightly as though considering her.

“Come inside the house with me,” she says. “I’ll get you a drink, get you something to eat.” 

Florence stares at her in shock, searching her face for any sign that Mina is mocking her, perhaps even looking for some kind of revenge. But all she can see is gentle compassion, earnest kindness. She doesn’t understand  _ why _ , though - she knows she doesn’t deserve it. Especially not from Mina.

“No, I...thank you, but I…I do not need any help,” she stutters, feeling herself flush. “Besides, your father - he told you to show me out, remember?”

A mischievous grin spreads slowly across Mina’s face, making her eyes sparkle, and Florence feels her heart turn over in her chest. 

“I have learnt one or two things from my brothers over the years, you know,” she says conspiratorially. “Papa does not need to know that you stayed a little longer. I have my ways.” 

Overwhelmed by this show of kindness, Florence begins to stutter out another protest - but she is shocked into silence as Mina reaches out and gently takes her hand. 

Florence stares down at their entwined hands for a moment, and then back up at Mina’s face, feeling her heart skip another beat as their gazes lock. 

Mina gives her another secretive little smile, before raising a finger to her lips silently, and pulling Florence gently in the direction of the house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....Sorry. But would this be a Drumfred fic if the boys communicated with each other properly and were not idiots? No, no it would not. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos make my day - thank you to everyone who has been showing their appreciation for this angsty little fic of mine! <3 <3 <3 xxx


	5. Dreams That Cannot Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mina reflects on her reunion with Florence, and has a difficult conversation with Henry.
> 
> Meanwhile, Edward and Alfred deal with the ramifications of Florence's lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm back again with my crazy little Les Mis AU! Life has been pretty chaotic for me over the past month or so - but not chaotic enough for to completely abandon these beautiful, idiotic boys!
> 
> And just a warning in advance: they're even more idiotic than normal this chapter. Sorry about that...
> 
> So, without further ado, buckle in and enjoy the (very angsty) ride!

Mina sighs to herself as she leans out of the window, watching the dawn creep across the sky, peach shot with gold. 

She still can’t quite believe the night she’s had. Seeing Florence Kerr again, after so many years, grown more beautiful than Mina could ever have imagined - but she is melancholy, too, dressed in ragged clothes that hang off her thin frame, and her hazel eyes are full of bitterness and pain. It hurts Mina to see how world-weary Florence seems to have become - but she supposes she might have been no better, if Henry Paget had never rescued her and she too had been forced to spend her whole life in that inn. 

Mina could see how much Florence was hurting. Her shock when Mina had invited her inside into the warmth was just further proof of how much she  _ needed  _ kindness. 

She had been surprised, though, once she had taken Florence inside the house, how quickly she had felt at ease with her. There was so much history between them, Mina had spent the most difficult years of her childhood with her - and yet, she found that it was good to see her again. Florence might have been reluctant to accept Mina’s invitation at first, but, once she had finally allowed herself to be led inside, it was a relief for Mina to see her eating and drinking properly, huddled in the warmth. As Mina had told her stories about Henry, about her brothers and the trouble they used to get into, Florence had smiled, awkwardly, hesitantly, as though she could not quite remember how to do it. Mina hates to think what she must have gone through that had made her so bitter, so hesitant to trust. She has an overwhelming instinct to protect Florence, to keep her close - and she cannot deny that she had felt some kind of spark, like a bright flame, when Florence’s hand had brushed against hers. 

She only wishes she could have told Florence to stay in the house with her, stay where she could be safe and warm, but after thanking Mina awkwardly, Florence had slipped out just before dawn, insisting that she would be fine. When Mina had tried to convince her to stay a little while longer, Florence had pointedly reminded her that Henry did not want her anywhere near the house. Mina had to admit that she could not argue against that - her adopted father had made his feelings on the matter quite clear. 

Mina supposes Henry’s fury at Florence is hardly surprising. After all, if it were not for her needlessly cruel lie to Alfred, her claim that Edward Drummond did not want Alfred to come near him again or be a part of his revolution, Alfred would never have run blindly off into the darkness, and Henry and George would not have had to chase after him, sick with worry about him. 

Mina thinks back to the heartbroken look on Alfred’s face, the way he had blinked rapidly to try and hold back his tears at Florence’s harsh words. She wonders where he is right now, and she swallows, feeling a little nauseous with worry herself. 

She knows full well how devastated, how vulnerable Alfred has been in the years since Alexandre’s death, and it has nearly broken her heart time and time again to see how the warmth and laughter has faded from his eyes, the way he has started to retreat into himself as though trying to shield himself from the rest of the world, the way the corner of his mouth twitches into a habitual grimace as though he is constantly in agony. She knows that Alfred drinks only to try and dull the pain.

But, since George persuaded him to start going to the revolutionaries’ meetings at the ABC Cafe, she’s noticed a change in him. His posture has started to straighten up somewhat, no longer hunched over in despair. His eyes seem to be a little brighter, more alert, and there’s a spark of something that Mina might almost dare to call  _ hope _ . She’s even seen the corner of his mouth quirking up into a little half-smile once or twice while he’s deep in thought. From everything that Mina has seen, all signs seem to point to the meetings he has been going to - and, more specifically, to the leader Edward Drummond - as the source of Alfred’s improvement. 

And so it hurt all the more to see that glimmer of hope fade from his eyes, the little colour he had regained draining from his face and leaving him pale, his mouth twisting once again into a grimace as he struggled not to cry in front of Florence. God knows what he’s doing now, where he has run to, whether or not he is safe. 

Part of Mina knows that she  _ should  _ be absolutely furious with Florence for deliberately hurting Alfred like that, just as Henry and George are both furious with her. And she  _ was  _ angry at her, at first, but…she’s heard Florence’s story now. Or part of it, at least. She understands how much Edward Drummond means to her - he is Florence’s shelter in the storm, the one person she thought she could rely on. Florence’s life is cold and dark, but Edward Drummond is her light. Just as he seems to have become a light in the darkness for Alfred. He must truly be a remarkable person to inspire such devotion, Mina muses.

The trouble is that Mina can understand Florence’s resentment of Alfred. Not that she could ever resent Alfred herself, she loves him like a brother - but she can see how, from Florence’s perspective, it might seem as if Alfred has suddenly appeared as if from nowhere, instantly drawing Edward Drummond’s attention and devotion, stealing him away from her. 

Mina sighs to herself again, torn between her worry for Alfred and her worry for Florence. Why must everything be so complicated? 

The sound of the front door opening startles her out of her reverie. She feels her heart leap into her throat - have Henry and George found Alfred then, is he back? Is he safe?

She hurries into the entrance hall. “Alfred?” she calls hopefully. Her heart sinks as she sees that neither Alfred or George are there - just Henry. She knows immediately that she doesn’t need to ask if he has found Alfred; the worry etched into every line of Henry’s face, the way he is leaning on his stick more heavily than usual, tells her everything she needs to know. 

“No,” Henry says gruffly. “Not Alfred. Only me.”

As the fear begins to creep down her spine again, she tries to think of something to say that will not worry Henry more. 

“Where’s George?” she asks, after a beat of silence. 

Henry sighs. “George is still out looking for him,” he replies. “Alfred is making it quite difficult - it would seem that he doesn’t want to be found at the moment. But George told me to go home and rest my leg for a bit while he keeps looking. I told him there was no need, but he promised I could take over the search again in a few hours if Alfred hasn’t been found by then. Damned leg...he’s probably right though, I should rest it a bit.”

Mina nods tightly, trying to swallow down her emotion. “He’s right, you  _ should  _ rest,” she says, offering him her arm to lean on. 

“I don’t need help, Mina, I’m fine,” Henry says gruffly. Mina looks at him, raising one eyebrow silently and pointedly. She knows just how stubborn he can be sometimes - it’s a trait that frustrates him no end in his sons, even though both of them inherited it from him. 

Henry sighs, reluctantly taking the arm she is still proffering. “Fine. As you are offering so kindly,” he mutters, though from the way he leans on her, Mina can tell he is secretly grateful for the support. 

She leads him gently into the sitting room, helping him into his favourite armchair. Henry stretches his wooden leg out, clearly still in some pain. 

“I’ll ring for tea, Papa,” Mina says quickly, keen to distract him from both his pain and his worry about Alfred as best she can.

A couple of minutes pass in tense silence as the maid brings them tea. Focusing intently on the cup in her hands rather than looking at Henry, Mina wills her hands to stop shaking. 

Only when the maid has left them alone does Henry break the silence. 

“Actually, Mina, I’ve been wanting a word with you. In private.” 

His stern tone lets Mina know immediately that she is in trouble. 

“Oh?” she asks, still focusing intently on the teacup in her hands, and trying her best not to let her worry show in her face or her voice. He must have figured out that she has been covering for Alfred and George while they snuck out to the revolutionary meetings, she assumes. 

“Yes,” he said. “You were lying to me last night, weren’t you?”

Mina looks up at him, still trying to keep her expression neutral despite the unease twisting in her stomach. “Lying to you, Papa? What do you mean? What would I be lying about?” 

Henry glares at her. “Don’t play games with me, please, Mina, you are insulting my intelligence. You were lying to me when you told me that the scream I heard was you, and that you screamed because you saw Florence Kerr and she took you by surprise. I think I have known you for long enough now that I know the sound of your voice, Mina, and that was not it. I did not point out that you were lying to me last night - I thought there was already enough to deal with, what with that wretched girl hurting my boy like that.” A note of pain and anger creeps into his voice, before he seems to shake himself back to the present, fixing his gaze on Mina again. “Besides, I had no wish to embarrass you in front of her” he says gruffly. “But you  _ were  _ lying to me, weren’t you?”

Mina hesitates, twisting her hands together slightly, but she can see from the look on Henry’s face that there is no point pretending anymore. She sighs. 

“Yes,” she admits, “I was lying about the scream. I’m sorry, Papa. And,” she continues sheepishly, as Henry opens his mouth to speak again, deciding that she may as well confess to everything, “I also knew about Alfred and George going to those meetings behind your back. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.” 

Henry sighs, rubbing a hand over his face wearily. “Yes, I figured as much. I understand that you would want to keep your brothers’ secret” - Mina flushes slightly, looking down at her lap guiltily - “but that’s not what we’re talking about right now. I want to know why you lied to me last night, Mina. What happened? Who screamed? Was it Florence?” 

Mina nods reluctantly. “Yes, Papa. It was Florence who screamed.” 

“I see,” Henry responds. “And what possible reason could Florence have had to scream like that, alarming us out of our beds, if all she was doing was, as she said, delivering a message to Alfred?” 

Mina hesitates again.

“Mina,” Henry says, and she recognises the warning note in his voice. “I  _ know  _ you have still not told me the whole story. What happened last night?”

She sighs. She had  _ really  _ been hoping that she could avoid telling him this - she knows how he gets sometimes. But, at this point, it doesn’t appear that she has any choice other than to tell him the truth. 

“Florence’s father came here last night,” she tells Henry quietly. “The innkeeper, Kerr - the man you rescued me from when I was a little girl. He brought some other men with him, too - they were armed.”

She watches the colour drain from Henry’s face as he clenches his fist at his side. “You thought you just wouldn’t mention to me that  _ Kerr  _ came to our house in the middle of the night last night? With a group of  _ armed men _ ?”

Mina flinches a little at his raised voice. “I’m sorry, Papa,” she says ashamedly, yet again. “I just...I didn’t want to worry you…”

“ _ Didn’t want to worry me _ ?” Henry repeats incredulously, and she can hear how foolish it sounds. In fact, she had not told him because she had been afraid he might react in exactly the way he  _ is  _ reacting - but that doesn’t seem like the wisest thing to say right now. 

“So, Florence Kerr led her brute of a father to our house last night?” Henry asks angrily. 

“What?” No, Papa, she did nothing of the kind!” Mina replies indignantly. “Quite the opposite, in fact - she was the one who drove him and the others away! She did not scream out of fear, she did not seem afraid of her father at all.” Mina can hear a note of awe and pride in her own voice. “Florence screamed to raise the alarm, to give her father no choice but to flee. She was amazing, Papa, she was not afraid of him, even when he threatened her. She  _ spat  _ at him.” 

“Brave as that might have been,” Henry says exasperatedly, “you realise, I hope, Mina, that it does not solve the problem? Kerr may have been driven away last night - but the fact remains that I humiliated him the other day, and he is also convinced that I have cheated and robbed him. He knows where I live now, and if he was foiled last night, then he will come back tonight, or tomorrow night, or the night after. He wants revenge. He will not give up.”

“Papa....” Mina reaches out toward him, trying to reassure him, even as she shivers slightly, recognising the truth of Henry’s words. Why did she not think of this, how can she have been such a fool?

“No,” Henry says suddenly, decisively. He stands up, straight-backed, authoritative, every inch the soldier. “I will  _ not  _ have any of my children endangered by that vicious lunatic. I cannot allow him the chance to come back and hurt any of you, I will not even let him touch a single hair of your heads.”

“What are you going to do, Papa?” Mina asks, half afraid, half in awe. 

“George and I are going to fetch Alfred and bring him home, as soon as possible,” Henry answers. “And you are going to pack your bags, Mina. We’re leaving this house. Leaving this town.” 

* * *

Alone in an unfamiliar tavern once more, Alfred sits, swaying slightly on his seat, staring into the depths of the almost empty tankard in front of him. He’s not quite sure how many drinks he’s up to now; he stopped counting a while ago. 

The tiny tavern is shabby and grey, with paint peeling off the walls, and some distant part of Alfred is vaguely aware of how out of place he must look here. Not that he cares; as far as he’s concerned, the bleak, uncaring atmosphere of this place rather suits him. Besides, it’s not like there’s anyone that he knows or cares about here that might recognise him - he’s sure his brother and Papa are somewhere out there looking for him right now, but he’s fairly certain he’s found a reasonably good hiding hole in this grimy little place near the Sorbonne. He never usually comes to this part of town, they’re not likely to come looking for him here. He’s thankful that there’s nobody around to look at him, disgusted at the state he’s in. 

Anyway, nobody could be as disgusted by him as he is at himself. 

It was one thing just to  _ think  _ that Edward Drummond hated him, did not want Alfred anywhere near him or his revolution. But to actually have confirmation of that, to hear those words directly from Edward’s closest friend, to realise that Edward had sent someone else to deliver the message because he didn’t want to have to see him again, to  _ know  _ with certainty that Edward never had any faith in him, even believed that he would turn traitor if he joined the revolution...it feels as if there’s a knife twisting into Alfred’s chest. The hurt is more than he knows how to bear. 

The worst part, perhaps, is that Alfred knows perfectly well that this agony is his own fault. He let himself get ridiculously attached, let himself believe that Edward Drummond might somehow be able to pull him out of the darkness and into the light. He even thinks some part of him might have believed that Edward thought about him in return, noticed him more than he noticed other people. 

God, how could he have been so  _ stupid _ ? How has he  _ still  _ not learnt that the more he cares, the more he has to lose? He grips the tankard in his hands, squeezing so tightly that it hurts, wondering how he could possibly have been so deluded as to think that somebody like  _ Edward Drummond  _ would care about the likes of  _ him.  _

The door of the tavern swings open behind him, making a cool draught swirl around the tiny room before the door slams shut again.

“Alfred?”

He freezes, wondering if he’s drunk enough to simply imagine what he longs to hear. He knows that voice; he’s only known it for a few days, but he’s already convinced that he would know it anywhere. 

He turns his head slowly, half-terrified that he imagined hearing that voice, and half-terrified that he didn’t. But sure enough, standing there behind him in the filthy little tavern, looking absurdly beautiful and even more absurdly out of place, is Edward Drummond himself, staring at Alfred with shock written across his face, and something else that Alfred can’t quite read. Relief? 

For a split second, Alfred feels his heart leap, and idiotically, he almost  _ smiles  _ at Edward. But then the memory of everything Florence Kerr told him comes rushing back to him, and he tears his gaze abruptly away from the wonderful man behind him, staring down at his tankard again as he blinks back tears, struggling not to crumple beneath the weight of what he knows. 

Edward Drummond doesn’t care about him. He doesn’t want him to be a part of his revolution. He doesn’t believe in him. Why on earth would he be relieved to see him? 

“What are you doing here, Drummond?” Alfred asks without looking at him, desperately trying to sound as though Edward’s presence does not much matter to him. 

“I....I was looking for you,” Edward responds. Something in his voice makes Alfred chance another glance over at him. He looks taken aback, perhaps even a little hurt, though Alfred can’t imagine why. He’s never seen Edward look so uncertain. 

There is a moment of silence as Edward swallows, seemingly searching for the right words to say. Words certainly never seemed to be a problem for him before. 

“You left without a word last night, Alfred,” he says quietly. Alfred is looking resolutely away from him again, but he can feel Edward’s searching gaze on the back of his head. “I….I did not get a chance to say goodbye.”

Alfred clenches the tankard tightly again, feeling a fresh, hot surge of hurt and anger bubbling in his stomach. How can Edward possibly be such a hypocrite? Why would he write such a letter, and then turn around and pretend to care about him? If Edward thinks that Alfred is a liability, that he would turn traitor to the revolution, can’t he at least have the decency to admit that to his face, rather than writing it down and sending it through a messenger? 

Alfred scoffs derisively, turning around to glare at Edward, a combination of alcohol and fury lending him courage. Or something like it, at least. He’s not particularly familiar with how courage feels. 

“‘ _ Say goodbye? _ ’” he echoes. “Why would you have wanted to say goodbye, Drummond? You didn’t even want me there!” 

Edward stares at him, his mouth slightly open, as though he doesn’t understand what Alfred is saying. 

“Didn’t...didn’t want you there?” he echoes, sounding completely bewildered. “Why would you think I didn’t want you there?”

Alfred narrows his eyes at him. He had truly believed Edward was always brave enough to say exactly what he thought. How could he have been so wrong about him?

“I don’t just  _ think  _ it; I  _ know  _ you didn’t want me there,” he says angrily. “That’s what your letter said, isn’t it? That I’m not welcome any more? That you don’t believe I’m capable of having faith in anything? That you think I would turn traitor to your revolution?” 

Alfred can feel the tears of humiliation burning his eyes as he voices these things aloud, all the fears that have been gnawing away at him for years, the fears that Edward Drummond has now confirmed by rejecting him. 

Edward blinks at him, looking more baffled than ever. 

“What?” he asks blankly. “That’s not...what…”

Alfred can’t stand this anymore, sitting here and listening to Edward lie to him through his teeth. He feels his hurt and anger bubble over, and the words spill out before he can stop them. 

“You know what? You didn’t need to worry, I wouldn’t have stayed anyway. After all, as you well know, I’m not as  _ brave  _ or as  _ selfless  _ as you are - but then, who could ever hope to be as wonderful as the great Edward Drummond?” Alfred is trying his best to make his tone drip with sarcasm, desperately hoping that Edward won’t notice how much he truly believes what he is saying, how much it hurts to say it. 

“Like I told you when we met, Drummond - I don’t believe in your precious revolution anyway. You and your friends, your fellow revolutionaries - at the end of the day, you’re nothing but naive, overprivileged schoolboys, playing at war, convinced that you are heroes, when actually you are nothing but deluded fools.” 

Edward takes a step back, gazing at Alfred with undisguised shock and hurt etched across his face. Immediately, Alfred feels a wave of guilt, a longing to reach out to him, to apologise and beg his forgiveness - but, reminding himself sharply that Edward hurt  _ him  _ first, he forces the guilt down, raising his chin defiantly. 

“Why are you  _ like  _ this, Alfred?” Edward asks, his voice cracking slightly. “Why are you so  _ scared  _ to let yourself have faith in anything?”

Alfred’s breath hitches in his throat as he stares at Edward, wondering once again how this man seems to see through him so easily. For a moment, he considers denying the accusation. But perhaps there is no point in lying to him. Edward Drummond understands him too well. He swallows.

“Because I lost somebody” he says shortly. “I lost somebody who I thought, at the time, I was in love with. I could not save them.” 

He closes his eyes briefly, struggling against the dark memories, not wanting to see the pity in Edward’s eyes. 

There is a moment of deafening silence, one moment that seems to last for hours, before Edward finally speaks. 

“Alfred, I...I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t know. You must miss her so much.”

Alfred swallows again, struggling to fight back the tears. “Yes,” he responds. “Yes, I do miss  _ him _ .” Edward sucks in a sharp breath.

Alfred doesn’t quite know why he emphasised the pronoun so pointedly - or why he told Edward that at all, in fact. Confessing that he was in love with a man is probably not something that he should be doing lightly, and even if he feels like he has known Edward Drummond forever, the reality is that he has known him only a few days. 

He hesitates, wondering if he should take those words back somehow, pretend he was joking. But as he gazes at Edward, he can see no trace of horror or disgust or judgement in his face. His expression is rather difficult to read, actually. 

“Oh,” he says quietly. 

There is another moment of shivering silence between them as they stare at each other. Alfred feels as though he is falling into those earnest, intelligent dark eyes. He mentally shakes himself, reminding himself how angry he is, how much Edward has hurt him. 

“Anyway,” he says abruptly, desperately hoping Edward can’t tell how much his heart is pounding, “I learnt six years ago that there is no point in trying to save others, or in trying to make the world a better place. All it does is make the pain even worse when you fail. And I was too much of a coward to even try and avenge his death; so perhaps you are very wise not to let me fight alongside you.” 

He looks away from Edward, blinking rapidly as he tries once again to force the tears back. 

“Alfred…” Edward murmurs quietly, so quietly that Alfred can easily pretend he did not hear him. 

“You know something?” Alfred asks, looking back at him again. “Somehow, you actually managed to give me a little bit of hope, for the first time in six years.” Edward stares at him silently, as though he does not know how to look away. 

“I really thought, for a moment there, that you truly had faith in me, that you truly believed I could join you and help you to save people. And that would have been pretty close to a miracle - because nobody,  _ nobody  _ has faith in me. Least of all myself.” Alfred pauses, struggling to collect himself, to make it seem as though he is detached, as though none of this affects him - but he can hear his own voice shaking. He closes his eyes again for a brief moment before meeting Edward’s gaze again. 

“I almost trusted you, Edward,” he whispers. “I suppose I should thank you for reminding me how stupid it is to let myself have hope.”

“ _ Alfred _ ,” Edward says, much louder this time, reaching out towards Alfred as though acting on pure instinct - but Alfred backs away so Edward cannot reach him. 

“Please,” he says, his voice hoarse with unshed tears. “Do not give up your faith in the revolution on  _ my  _ account. It would be much safer and much wiser, I’d wager, if you would just give up on this dream of yours before you get hurt, before it is too late. There are some dreams that cannot be - believe me, I know.” Edward stares at him wordlessly, a single tear tracing its way silently down his face. 

“But there is no need to listen to me,” Alfred continues bitterly. “I will not burden you any longer, Edward Drummond.” 

“Alfred,” Edward says again, his voice cracked with tears, reaching out towards him once more. 

But, once again, Alfred backs away from him. He looks at Edward Drummond for a moment, trying to memorise his face, before turning around and pushing his way unsteadily out of the shabby tavern, blinking back tears as he leaves. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos absolutely make my day - it makes me so happy to know that people are enjoying reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it! <3 <3 xxx
> 
> Also, side note - I know it's been a long time since I posted a new chapter for my main fic, Not Altogether Respectable, but I promise there will be more of that coming too! Stay tuned!


	6. Shall Her Sins Be Forgiven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As tensions rise in Alfred's absence, Henry has some unwelcome news for Mina and George. 
> 
> When George goes to confront Edward the next day, some uncomfortable truths begin spilling out for Florence. But if Mina is there, perhaps all is not lost...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, after a brief visit to the world of my main fic Not Altogether Respectable, I am back to deal with these crazy lovebirds and the mess they've all put themselves in!   
I'm planning to jump back and forth a bit between posting these two fics - but I can tell you I've now finished the outline for this entire story, and I am VERY excited to tell it!
> 
> I hope you enjoy Chapter 6! <3 <3 xxx

As the grandfather clock in the hallway ticks relentlessly closer and closer to midnight, Mina sits timidly in her armchair, watching Henry uneasily. He had been pacing up and down the room for almost an hour now, his wooden leg clunking loudly across the floorboards. Mina had tried to tell him that he should sit down, that he would hurt or exhaust himself, but Henry had only given her a withering look, so she had reluctantly fallen silent. She knows full well there is no point in arguing with her Papa when he gets like this; as much as his sons’ stubbornness frustrates him, it’s fairly evident to Mina where they both get it from. 

Now that Henry has decreed that they need to leave this house, leave  _ Paris _ , she knows that it will be almost impossible to dissuade him from his decision. Now that he’s managed to force the truth from her about the reason for Florence’s scream last night, about Kerr the innkeeper coming to the house with his armed gang, there’s not a chance in hell he’ll let them stay where they are. Henry loves them all far too much, he doesn’t want to take  _ any  _ chances that any harm will befall them.

Of course, they can’t go anywhere until they find Alfred; Henry is hardly likely to leave one of his beloved sons behind in Paris, not even knowing where he is. But the seemingly endless waiting, the constant straining as they listen for the sound of footsteps approaching the house, the anxiety creeping down Mina’s spine as she wonders where Alfred might be right now, is hardly soothing the tension in the room. Henry’s constant, restless pacing isn’t doing much to calm her nerves either. 

They both jump when they hear the front door opening. 

Her heart leaping into her throat as she feels hope swell in her chest again, Mina glances quickly at Henry before hitching up her long skirts slightly and hurrying into the entrance hall, too eager for news to wait for her Papa. She hears him clunking after her moments later.

“Alfred?” she asks hopefully as she hurries towards the front door. 

“No,” George responds grimly, and her heart sinks again, as it had done hours earlier when Henry had returned alone. “Only me.”

Mina nods bitterly, feeling her chest constrict tightly with worry again. Henry curses. “ _ Damn  _ that boy! Why must he be so foolish, why must he drive all of us half-mad with worry every day? Is it too much to ask that an old man can go a full week without his son trying to give him a heart attack?”

George shrugs gloomily. 

“Alfred is heartbroken, Papa,” Mina murmurs quietly. “He’s in a lot of pain. You know that.” 

Henry grunts. “I know. And that damned Florence Kerr turning up on our doorstep wasn’t much help.” 

Mina winces slightly at the anger in his tone as he mentions Florence, though she knows that, from his perspective, her Papa has every right to be angry with Florence. 

“But the fact that Alfred is in pain is no excuse for him to keep acting like a drunken, reckless fool and drive the rest of us insane with worry every day of our lives! And how can it  _ possibly  _ be this difficult to find your brother?” Henry continues, rounding on his younger son. “Are you sure you’ve been looking for him hard enough?”

“Don’t you  _ dare  _ start on me, Papa!” George retaliates, firing up immediately as he glares at his father. “Do you really think I care about Alfred any less than either of you do, do you really think I wouldn’t make every effort to find him, to bring him home safe? If I haven’t found him yet, it’s because he doesn’t  _ want  _ to be found, Papa, and you know it!”

Henry glares back at his son for a moment, and then sighs, his body sagging slightly as all the fight seems to go out of him. “You’re right, George. Forgive me. I just...I can’t bear this.”

“No, me neither,” George murmurs in response. The anger seems to have vanished from the room; now there is nothing but desperation and sadness. 

“Come and sit down,” Henry says, conciliatory now. “I’ll pour you a drink.”

George nods wearily, following Henry and Mina back into the living room. 

  
  


Henry reaches for the decanter and glass on the sideboard and attempts to pour a glass of port for George, but his hands appear to be shaking too much to hold the glass steady.

“Here, let me, Papa,” Mina says hastily, getting up and holding out a helping hand. 

For once too weary to argue, Henry nods gratefully, sinking down into an armchair for the first time in over an hour and stretching out his wooden leg with a grimace. George sits down opposite him, trying to force a smile at Mina as she hands him a glass of port and sinks down on the sofa.

“Well, we’ll have to keep looking,” Henry says gruffly. “Perhaps not right now, not tonight - I suppose we should all at least  _ attempt  _ to get a bit of rest.”

George nods. “I know.”

“It is  _ imperative  _ that we find him as soon as possible, George,” Henry says sharply.

“Obviously,” George replies, throwing his father an irritated look. 

“I mean it, George. We are leaving Paris, as soon as we possibly can - but obviously we need to find your brother and bring him back here before we can do that.”

George starts slightly, staring at Henry in shock. 

“Leaving Paris? Why on earth would we suddenly have to leave Paris, Papa? Surely you don’t want us to leave, just because Alfred and I went to a couple of those student meetings?”

Henry glares again at the reminder. 

“Those students and their idiotic ideas are dangerous enough, it’s true, and I don’t want you and Alfred anywhere near them - not that that stopped you when I told you so the first time, apparently. But no, that’s not the reason we have to leave Paris. Mina here neglected to tell me that when that wretched girl Florence Kerr turned up here last night, her brute of a father, the one that I rescued Mina from all those years ago, was at our gate too. And he wasn’t alone - he brought armed thugs with him, apparently.”

George looks at Mina, startled. 

“That bastard was  _ here?  _ At our  _ house _ ? And you just... _ forgot  _ to tell us this?”

Feeling a flush of shame spreading across her cheeks, Mina looks down at her lap, shrugging miserably. 

“I just didn’t want to worry you,” she mutters. 

“Didn’t want to  _ worry _ us?!” George echoes incredulously. 

“Apparently that wretched girl did at least manage to drive her father and his thugs away with her scream,” Henry continues loudly, before Mina can respond - “I  _ knew  _ you were lying about that scream,” George mutters to Mina, making her flush again - “but the fact remains that now Kerr knows where we live, he could return at any time. The man is desperate for revenge on me and I know well enough that he possesses not the tiniest sliver of conscience; he would have no qualms at all about hurting my children in order to hurt me. And I will  _ not  _ allow that to happen.” 

“Papa, we can take care of ourselves, you know,” George starts, but he falls silent as his father glares at him again. 

“As I said, I will  _ not allow that to happen _ ,” Henry repeats, firmly and loudly. “I will die before I let that bastard touch a single hair on any of your heads.” 

Mina blinks back tears, wondering, not for the first time in her life, how she was ever lucky enough to be taken from the abuse of the innkeeper Kerr to the fierce and loving protection of Henry Paget. 

“I need to keep you safe,” Henry continues. “Nothing in the world is more important than that, George. But I cannot keep you safe in this house now that Kerr knows we live here. And given that he more than likely knows Paris like the back of his hand, I think it unwise for us to stay anywhere in this city. So, we are going to keep looking for Alfred from first light tomorrow morning, and the moment that we find him, we are going to pack our things and leave this city. Do I make myself clear, George?”

He glares fiercely at his son, forcing him to make eye contact. 

George looks like he is considering arguing back, but looking at his father’s expression and evidently gleaning from his tone that he will brook no refusal, he sighs and nods. 

Henry nods too, satisfied with this response. 

“Good. Now get some rest, both of you. We start looking again in the morning.” 

* * *

  
  


Florence has never seen Edward looking so despondent. 

She has accompanied him to the ABC Cafe again - after all, he did tell her she could, and she still wants to be near him - but, for the first time, he does not seem at all excited by the prospect of planning a revolution. 

Usually when she watches him here, Edward is in his element, seemingly everywhere at once; scribbling down notes before dashing off to compare maps, questioning the others about supplies, yet always ready to offer a comforting hand on someone’s shoulder and a reassuring or encouraging word, no matter how busy he is.

Today, though, his passion seems to have completely vanished. He appears completely distracted, walking around slowly as though he doesn’t quite know where he is going, as though he is dazed. He barely seems to be listening when anyone speaks to him, nodding absentmindedly as though he has not taken in a word. As Florence watches him, she sees him bite his lip, blinking rapidly and fiercely as though he is willing himself not to burst into tears. 

Usually, Edward’s presence and passion seems to bathe the entire room in sunlight, enveloping everyone around him in warmth. Now, there is no warmth for anyone else, for how can there be when Edward himself is suddenly cloaked in shadows, sunk in melancholy?

Clearly, Florence is not the only one to have noticed his peculiar mood, judging by the badly hidden mutters and whispers around the room, the uneasy glances the other students are exchanging. Either Edward is oblivious to this, though, or he has decided he doesn’t care. 

Florence looks down at her lap, feeling her stomach churn with guilt and shame. She’s fairly certain she knows what the matter with Edward is. He wrote a letter of apology to Alfred, reassuring him of how much he wanted him to stay; and, as far as he knew, Florence had delivered that letter. Yet there was still no word from Alfred Paget, no sign of him at all - so Edward must have assumed that Alfred had not accepted his apology, that Alfred was refusing to forgive him. 

But of course, she knows better. She knows Alfred hasn’t even seen the letter; worse still, she is fully aware that it is because of her own vindictive lie that Alfred is now convinced Edward has rejected him. If it were not for that lie, Alfred might be at Edward’s side right now, Edward might be smiling and laughing, filling the room with his warmth and light as usual. God, Florence would give  _ anything  _ to be able to rewind time. 

She knows she should just  _ tell  _ Edward, explain the truth of what she has done. But how could she ever truly explain herself to him? How could she possibly justify such a spiteful impulse, one that has ended up hurting Edward Drummond so much, when he is so  _ good  _ and  _ decent _ , when he has always treated her with kindness that she evidently never deserved? She cannot do it. She cannot lose him. If she tells Edward what she has done, he will never smile at her again. 

And so Florence does not speak, but continues staring down at her lap, twisting her hands together, hating herself more with every passing moment. 

The door of the tavern swings open, and both Edward and Florence glance towards it instinctively. She sees Edward’s face light up with hope for a moment, clearly wondering for a split second if Alfred has returned after all; but his face quickly falls again, sinking back into melancholy as he sees that there is no Alfred, just his brother George Paget, accompanied for some reason by Mina. 

Florence feels her heart suddenly skip a beat again as she looks at Mina, so out of place here in this dingy tavern with her beautiful golden hair and her blue silk dress. Florence can’t help but smile to herself slightly, remembering how, despite all the pain from their childhood spent together, Mina had welcomed her so kindly into her house two nights ago even though Henry Paget had expressly told Florence to leave. She remembered jumping slightly when Mina had taken her hand to pull her inside, feeling almost as though she had been burnt, though not at all in an uncomfortable or painful way. It was strange, how peaceful and  _ safe  _ she had felt with Mina, despite the fact that she was in Alfred Paget’s home as well. Part of her still wished that she could have stayed longer, as indeed Mina had asked her to do, but she’d forced herself to leave when the sun had started to rise, not wanting to impose herself any more than she already had done. Besides, it would not have done for Henry Paget to return and find her still in his house. 

Shaking herself back to the present, Florence offers Mina a small, hesitant smile. Mina does not return her smile, though; her glance darts from Florence to Edward standing beside her - though she has never actually seen him before, she seems to immediately understand who he is - and her mouth tightens slightly, as though in disappointment or disapproval. 

Florence feels her heart sink, her face flooding with heat as she suddenly remembers that Mina knows she lied about the letter, she knows that it is Florence who has caused all this trouble and pain. And she evidently understands with one glance that Florence has not mentioned any of this to Edward. Guilt and shame twisting sharply in her stomach again, Florence immediately looks down again, avoiding Mina’s gaze. 

Edward nods in their direction, acknowledging their arrival. 

“Drummond,” George says curtly, striding towards Edward and holding out his hand. Edward shakes it awkwardly. 

“Oh, this is my sister Mina, by the way,” George introduces her, gesturing vaguely in her direction. Evidently Mina has heard enough about Edward Drummond by now that she does not need to be introduced to him in return. Edward nods, barely glancing at her. 

“Am I to understand that you are here with your sister as your brother will no longer be joining us, George?” Edward asks, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. “I can hardly say that I am surprised,” he mutters to himself.

George grimaces. 

“Actually, Drummond, neither Mina nor I have any idea where Alfred  _ is _ at the moment,” he responds sharply. 

All the colour drains from Edward’s face. 

“Alfred...Alfred is missing?” he whispers, staring at George as though willing him to deny it. 

George nods. “Actually, Mina and I have come here looking for him. We’re getting rather desperate, Drummond, neither of us have seen him since two nights ago” - Florence doesn’t look up, but she can feel the weight of George’s glare on her - “but we thought there was at least some chance that he might have come to you. My father was going to come charging in here with us, making accusations - he is hardly a supporter of your cause - but I managed to dissuade him. Told him he needed to rest his leg, he can’t keep barrelling around Paris looking for his idiot of a son. So.  _ Have  _ you seen my brother, Drummond?”

Edward swallows, staring at him. “Alfred hasn’t come here, no,” he says reluctantly. “But then, this is probably the last place on Earth he would come to. I did actually run into him yesterday - “

“You  _ have  _ seen him?” George interrupts. Edward nods.

“Yes, I saw him. But he left.”

George curses under his breath. “Well, for  _ God’s  _ sake, why didn’t you follow him, Drummond?”

“Because,” Edward responds, his voice cracking, clearly struggling to fight back tears, “Alfred made it fairly clear that he had no desire to ever see me again.” 

Florence glances up and sees a tear escape down Edward’s cheek, which he angrily dashes away with the back of his hand. 

“Don’t ask me what I have done to offend him so. I have absolutely no idea.” 

George gives a hollow, incredulous laugh. “You don’t know what you’ve done to offend my brother? You don’t think that perhaps sending him a letter to tell him that he wasn’t welcome at your meetings and that you thought he would turn traitor to the revolution might  _ possibly  _ have been what did it, then? I must say, Drummond, for such a strong and passionate leader, it is rather remarkable that you did not even have the courage to say that to Alfred’s face.” 

Edward stares at him, his mouth open, utterly bewildered, and Florence cringes, waiting for the inevitable. 

“What?” he asks. “What are you  _ talking  _ about, George? I sent Alfred a letter of apology! I only wrote that I was truly sorry if I had upset him in any way with my stupid, thoughtless words before - and I  _ am  _ sorry! I wrote in that letter that I never wanted Alfred to leave!”

George stares at him, completely thrown. 

“ _ That’s  _ what the letter said?”

“ _ Yes _ !” Edward exclaims impatiently. 

“But then...why would Alfred be so devastated?” George asks, baffled. “That doesn’t make any sense at all! Unless…” 

George frowns, looking suspiciously at Florence. She senses that Mina is looking determinedly away from her, trying not to give her away. 

Florence swallows, already feeling tears pricking at the backs of her eyes. It is too late. She has no other choice. She has nobody to blame for this but herself and her own spiteful jealousy. She has made her bed, and now she must lie in it. 

_ Goodbye, Edward _ , she thinks to herself.

“Alfred never read your letter, Edward,” she says quietly, half hoping he won’t hear her. 

“What did you say?” Edward asks, turning to stare at her. Florence swallows hard, feeling the weight of both George and Mina staring at her as well. 

“I said, Alfred never read your letter,” she whispers. “My father snatched it from me before I could give it to him. And then, when Alfred arrived....I lied to him, Edward. I lied about your letter.” 

She can feel her face burning with shame as she speaks, but she forces herself to keep going. 

“It was me who told him that you said he was not welcome here anymore. It was me who told him that you never wanted him to come back. Me who told him that you believed he would turn traitor to your revolution.” 

Edward stares at her in shock, desperately trying to process her words. Florence tenses, waiting for him to start shouting at her - but what happens is much worse. 

His face crumples, and he looks at her without a hint of his usual warmth and affection. There is nothing but hurt and betrayal etched across his face. 

“ _ Why _ ?” he asks quietly, his voice vulnerable and cracked. “ _ Why  _ would you have lied to him? If you have lied to Alfred, then you have lied to me, too. I...I trusted you, Florence.” He sounds as though he can’t quite believe that he was ever foolish enough to trust her. 

Florence looks down at the ground, unable to meet his eyes. How can she possibly give him the honest answer - because she was spiteful and jealous, because she hated Alfred, because she had been stupid enough to believe even for one moment that Edward was  _ hers _ ?

She can feel Mina gazing at her with sympathy, as though longing to speak out on her behalf but knowing that it is not her place. But Florence can’t bring herself to meet Mina’s eyes either. 

So, she says nothing. She continues staring at the ground, and, in response to Edward’s questions, she simply shrugs silently. 

Edward shakes his head, evidently realising that he will get no satisfactory answers from her. He turns back to George. 

“So, you have absolutely no idea where Alfred is right now?” he asks.

George shakes his head.

“Do you...do you think he might be in danger?” Edward asks, his voice trembling as though he can’t bear even to imagine it, let alone say the words.

George shrugs gloomily, raising his eyes to meet Edward’s. 

“God knows,” he responds. “I only know that I don’t trust my brother to be alone at the moment.” 

“Then we must find him,” Edward answers. “At once.”

George nods. Apparently no more words are needed, as both men start simultaneously for the door. Florence speaks up with mere moments to spare before they disappear. 

“What can I do?” she asks quietly. 

George turns on his heel, staring at her incredulously.

“What can  _ you  _ do?” he echoes harshly. “I would think that  _ you  _ have done quite enough already.”

Florence looks at Edward in a mute appeal. He looks back at her as though he does not know what to say, his face a picture of disappointment and anger, tangled up with sympathy and pity. In the end, he says nothing to her, but simply shakes his head and follows George out of the tavern in silence. 

The tavern door swings shut behind the two of them with a slam that seems very final. Florence doesn’t think she’ll ever forget the expression on Edward’s face just now; she has never seen him look at her like that, she has never seen him look at  _ anyone  _ like that. Guilt and pain and grief all twist viciously inside her. 

She can’t bear this. She could bear anything else, perhaps, but not this. Not losing Edward. 

Florence breathes quickly and sharply - there doesn’t seem to be enough air in the room, all of a sudden - and before she knows it, her whole body is heaving with sobs. 

The students in the tavern, already seeming rather baffled by Edward’s abrupt departure, shuffle their feet and mutter awkwardly, all of them edging slowly further away from her, clearly having absolutely no idea how to handle a woman who is sobbing as though her heart is breaking. 

Mina glances warily around at the men; coming to a decision, she grasps Florence’s arm and gently but firmly steers her into a little side room, closing the door firmly behind them so that Florence is free of the mens’ stares. 

Once they have some privacy, Mina guides Florence gently down into a chair. 

“He hates me, he hates me, he hates me,” Florence chokes out through her tears. 

“I never meant to hurt him this much, I never meant to hurt Alfred this much either. I have ruined everything. I am nothing but a callous and conniving  _ bitch _ .” 

Mina shakes her head, getting down on her knees in front of Florence. She wraps her arms around her gently, rocking her as she sobs. 

“You are no such thing, Florence,” Mina reassures her in a whisper. “I understand, truly I do. It hurts. You don’t want to lose him.” 

Florence closes her eyes, burying her face in Mina’s warm, perfumed hair. Mina’s scent, her warmth, is more comforting than she ever could have imagined. Now more than ever, though, she can’t begin to understand what she has done to deserve Mina’s kindness. 

As Florence cries, Mina continues to rock her, quietly murmuring reassurances. 

Finally, Florence’s tears run out, and her breathing steadies, fading into an exhausted silence. 

She pulls back slightly, embarrassed that Mina should see her in such a ridiculous state. She offers her a grateful, awkward smile. 

“God, I must look awful,” she mutters. 

Mina shakes her head, smiling back at her. 

“You could never look awful, Florence,” she murmurs. 

She strokes her thumb gently, hesitantly, across Florence’s tearstained cheek, and then, before Florence can wrap her mind around what’s happening, Mina is leaning in and kissing her softly; first on her forehead, then on her nose, and then finally, tentatively, moving down to her lips. 

Florence’s eyelashes flutter shut instinctively as Mina kisses her, focusing on the feeling of Mina’s soft, warm lips moving gently against her own. Florence kisses her back without conscious thought, finding herself smiling slightly against Mina’s lips, despite everything. She has never felt  _ anything  _ like this before, never felt anything like this warm contentment spreading through her chest. She has never felt so safe before, never felt so  _ loved _ . 

Eventually, Mina pulls back, though it seems far too soon to Florence, and Florence gazes at her beautiful smiling face, dazed, knowing that she probably looks like a lovestruck idiot. 

“I don’t deserve that, Mina,” she whispers, when she finally finds her voice again.

Mina grins at her, shaking her head gently. 

“Well, I disagree. I say that you  _ do  _ deserve it, Florence,” she responds. 

For one beautiful, golden moment, the two of them just sit there in silence, foreheads pressed together gently, breathing each other in. 

“I’m sorry,” Mina murmurs, breaking the silence. “But I need to go and help them find Alfred.”

Florence nods, swallowing as the guilt and shame bubble up inside her again. She should have known that moment was too perfect to ever last. 

“Of course,” she answers quietly. “I understand.”

Mina nods too, standing up.

“Surely, though,” Florence continues hesitantly, “there must be  _ something  _ I can do to help, Mina?”

Mina tilts her head, looking at Florence thoughtfully. Florence’s heart is pounding, she can still feel the guilt twisting in her chest - but she knows now, without a doubt, that Mina will not scorn her, Mina will understand that she is being genuine. 

“Yes, I think there  _ is _ something you can do to help,” Mina responds. “Could you please try your best to get that letter back, Florence? Could you try to bring it back to me?”

Florence winces slightly. Facing her father again after she had spat in his face, getting that letter out of his grasp, is hardly going to be the easiest thing she has ever done. But she’s the one who got everyone into this mess, she reminds herself. She owes it to them to fix it. 

She nods determinedly. 

“Yes. I can do that, Mina. I want to help, I want to fix this.”

Mina smiles, pressing another gentle kiss to Florence’s forehead before turning for the door.

“Mina, wait,” Florence says. Mina turns back to her.

“If you find Alfred before I do,” she says quietly, “tell him that I am sorry. Please.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everybody who has given this fic such lovely support already! As always, comments and kudos make my day! <3 <3 xxx


	7. The Daughter of a Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward, George and Mina continue to search desperately for Alfred, who seems determined not to be found.
> 
> Meanwhile, Florence tries her best to fulfil her promise to Mina and retrieve Edward's letter from her father - but, in her desperation, she shocks herself with her actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the search for the heartbroken and evasive Alfred continues...
> 
> As a side note or 'fun fact' (for anyone who cares XD) this is the first chapter I've named using a quote from Victor Hugo's original book, rather than a lyric from the musical! I was a bit uncertain about breaking my pattern - I don't want to jinx anything lol - but it just felt right for this one!
> 
> And now, on with the show - I hope you enjoy Chapter 7!

The smoky little tavern is rather crowded, likely because of the pouring rain outside, which is pounding down so loudly against the roof that it is becoming difficult for the people who are huddled inside for shelter to hear each other speak. 

The door swings open and a tall dark-haired man hurries inside with his blond companion, both of them soaked to the skin and huddling inside their coats for warmth. A general grumble runs around the tavern as rain and a chill wind blow in through the open door for a moment, before the blond man slams the door shut behind him, silencing the bad-tempered mutters with a pointed glare around the room. Evidently, the man is in no mood to graciously listen to complaints. 

His dark-haired companion barely even seems to register the irritation of the tavern’s other patrons. He glances wildly around the room with an expression of desperate hope on his face, evidently searching for someone. Apparently he can’t see the person he is looking for, for his entire body seems to sink slightly in his disappointment, all his energy vanishing in a moment. 

Edward Drummond walks blindly over to the crackling fireplace, sinking down onto a stool and burying his face in his hands wearily. Watching him, George Paget sighs and resignedly walks towards the bar to order drinks. Placing a couple of coins down on the counter, he picks up their tankards and wanders over to the fireplace, sitting down opposite Edward and pushing his drink towards him. 

“Cheers,” George mutters sardonically, raising his tankard to Edward half-heartedly.

Edward gives a hollow laugh. It doesn’t seem to him that there’s much worth toasting or celebrating at the moment. 

He still can’t quite comprehend the fact that Florence has betrayed him. As long as he has known her, he has trusted her, cared for her deeply. He knows how dark and cold her life has been, no thanks to that brutish father of hers, and he hates the thought of her being in pain or in danger, which is why he has always made the utmost effort to respect her and protect her. Until today, Edward had truly believed that Florence cared about him and respected him in return. 

But it seems that he had been wrong, all along. He had trusted Florence, as his friend, to deliver an incredibly important letter to Alfred, a letter meant to convey Edward’s sincerest apologies for hurting him, a letter meant to reassure Alfred that Edward had never wanted him to leave, and that in fact he wanted him always by his side. 

But apparently, by Florence’s own admission, not only had she failed to deliver this letter to Alfred, but she had cruelly lied to him about what Edward had written, claiming that Edward didn’t want him, didn’t believe in him, and was convinced that he would turn traitor. Edward would have thought it was clear for anyone to see that Alfred doubts himself quite enough as it is, that he is hurting, that he is so vulnerable he is liable to shatter. What Alfred needs more than anything is to be reassured how strong and brave he can be, how  _ amazing  _ he can be. He needs to know that Edward believes in him completely. And Edward cannot fathom how Florence, his  _ friend  _ Florence, could ever have been so spiteful as to tear Alfred down like that, to destroy his faith in Edward and, much worse, to destroy what little faith he had in himself. 

He supposes at least that baffling and painful confrontation he’d had with Alfred makes a lot more sense now; at least now he understands why Alfred had been so angry and upset with him, why he had lashed out. But his new understanding doesn’t make it any easier to bear; he feels that he has not only lost Alfred, he has also lost the Florence that he thought he knew. 

For how can he possibly trust his friend anymore? As far as Edward is concerned, by lying to Alfred she has, by extension, lied to  _ him _ ; and it is due to Florence’s needlessly spiteful lie that Alfred has run away from him, run away from everyone who loves him, apparently determined not to be found. Edward should be running a meeting at the ABC Cafe at this moment, preparing for the revolution, preferably with Alfred by his side, lighting up the room with his passion and strength as Edward knows instinctively that he could do if he only  _ let  _ himself. But instead, Edward is sitting here with the wrong Paget, Alfred’s brother George, soaked to the skin and shivering, the two of them having been fruitlessly searching for Alfred for hours on end. 

God only knows where Alfred is right now. In the state he was in the last time Edward saw him, Edward isn’t sure he trusts Alfred to take care of himself at all - what if he’s just sitting out there somewhere, heedless of the cold rain pouring down on him, getting sicker and sicker and not caring enough to take shelter? Or....what if it’s worse even than that? 

Edward desperately tries to push away the terrifying images in his head, picking up his tankard and taking a tentative sip just so he can attempt to still his shaking hands. 

He looks curiously at George Paget, who is worrying at his lower lip absentmindedly, staring glumly into the depths of his own tankard. So similar to his brother and yet so different...the man responsible for bringing Alfred into Edward’s life in the first place…

“George,” Edward says abruptly, breaking the silence between them before he has even formed the words properly in his own head. “Can I ask you something?”

George shrugs gloomily without looking up at him, as if to say that it doesn’t matter anymore, nothing matters until they bring his brother home safe. Edward takes that as permission to ask his question.

“Why did you and Alfred ever start coming along to our meetings in the first place? If you didn’t care about what we had to say?”

George looks up at him, looking a little surprised by the question.

“ _ Alfred _ didn’t care,” he answers. “Or at least, he claimed he didn’t. I’ll admit I was rather curious about you and your revolution, Drummond. But to be honest, I was mainly just hoping that you might at least be able to provide my brother with some kind of distraction from his constant misery. He really needed it. I never thought Alfred would come to actually...believe in you. I never dreamed that you would be able to give him back his faith.” 

Edward chews on his lip as he processes this, feeling tears stinging in his throat. It’s incredibly overwhelming and humbling to think that he might have had such a profound and positive effect on Alfred - but the knowledge also makes it all the more frustrating that Alfred has fled, put his walls back up, before Edward has had the chance to get through to him properly or reassure him of how wonderful he is. 

“I  _ never  _ meant to make him think that he was not welcome, you know,” he whispers to George. “I know that Alfred doesn’t really believe in anything at the moment. But he should believe in himself more. I  _ need  _ him to believe in himself, just as I believe in him.”

George stares at him thoughtfully, chewing on his lip again, his expression much kinder and less suspicious than it ever has been before.

“He  _ was  _ starting to believe in himself again - or at least, I think he was,” he murmurs in response. “You were good for him, you know, Drummond. Against all the odds, perhaps. But now...now that he’s been convinced that  _ you  _ don’t believe in him…”

George grimaces, and Edward feels fear twisting in his stomach again, sharp and cold. 

Acting on instinct, he stands up, despite the fact that he has barely touched his drink, and reaches out to grasp George’s shoulder, trying his best to reassure him despite his own terror. 

“We  _ will  _ find him, George,” he tells him, hoping he sounds more firm and certain than he feels. “I swear it. I  _ will  _ make this right.” 

Looking back at him, George offers him a tentative little half-smile. Edward can tell George doesn’t quite believe him, no matter how desperately he wants to. With a small sigh, he stands up so that he is facing Edward properly. 

“Well then,” he responds. “Better keep looking, hadn’t we, Drummond?”

Edward nods shakily. Together, the pair of them scrape their chairs back noisily, and they wander out of the crowded, smoky tavern, back onto the streets where the pavement is shining like silver in the rain. 

They can’t give up on Alfred. 

* * *

Glancing at the dilapidated little house with the peeling paint and the door fallen halfway off its hinges, Florence sighs to herself. 

She’s fairly certain that this, her father’s house, is the worst possible place for her to be right now. After all, she openly thwarted his plan to attack the Paget house, she humiliated him in front of his gang. Not only that, but she showed him her anger and revulsion by spitting in his face. Her father is hateful, angry and quick to resort to violence at the best of times. But after what she did the last time they were face to face, Florence wouldn’t be particularly surprised if he actually tried to kill her. After all, she was of no use to him anymore. 

She can feel the old familiar fear, that feeling she’s always been so ashamed of, prickling under her skin, making her short of breath. After the confrontation she’d had with him the other night, Florence had rather hoped that she might never have to see her father again. In fact, a large part of her is desperate to turn around right now, to run as far away from her father’s house as she possibly can. 

But no. She can’t run away now, just to save her own skin. Her jealous, spiteful lie hurt Alfred Paget; worse, she hurt Edward as well, the man who has been her light in the darkness, who has saved her so many times just by being there for her. Florence thinks that look Edward gave her when she’d confessed about her lie, that look of complete and utter betrayal, might haunt her until her dying day. Perhaps she has already lost Edward forever - and perhaps she might deserve it if she has - but if there’s any chance at all that she might be able to fix this mess that she’s made, any chance at all that Edward might forgive her, then Florence knows she just has to take the risk. 

Besides, she’d promised Mina that she would try to get that letter back. And if anyone truly believes in her, regardless of whether or not she deserves it, Mina does. 

It’s the thought of Mina - her faith, her kindness, her compassion, her smile, her soft and sweet kisses which still set Florence’s heart pounding as she remembers them - that finally allows Florence to screw her courage to the sticking place, picking the lock easily and slipping silently into her father’s house. 

At least she had the sense to come late at night, Florence thinks to herself as she creeps down the silent, moonlit hall. It will never be safe for her to be here anymore, but coming at this time is as safe as she can hope for; at this time of night, her father is most likely either on the hunt somewhere in the dark side alleys of Paris, or else so drunk that he has keeled over somewhere in the house, dead to the world. Florence is praying for the former; she’d much rather he wasn’t here at all while she searches for the letter Edward wrote to Alfred. Though, she can’t help but think gloomily that if her father  _ is  _ somewhere out in the streets at the moment, then the letter is most likely with him, for she’s sure that, suspicious as he is, he would have kept it somewhere on his person. That is, unless he’s already read it and destroyed it, realising its’ contents are irrelevant to him. 

As she turns the corner quietly, Florence feels her stomach clench tightly with a potent combination of fear and hatred as she catches sight of her father, sitting slumped over the table. 

For a moment she freezes, holding her breath, terrified that he will immediately turn around at the sound of her footsteps. But as she waits, feeling every last nerve stretched tight as a bowstring, she eventually realises that there is no sound in the tiny, grimy room at all, other than the pounding of her own heart. It seems she was not lucky enough to miss him completely, but he is at least in a drunken stupor. 

Edging tentatively closer to the table where he sits, fearful of making the slightest sound, Florence feels her heart skip a beat as she realises that there is a piece of paper lying open next to him. Edging closer still, she feels a leap of relief as she recognises Edward’s beautiful handwriting in the candlelight flickering over the page. Skimming the letter, she exhales slightly, unable to quite believe her luck - not only is her father insensible with drink, but he has not even bothered to hide Edward’s letter or keep it safe on his person. 

Grinning to herself slightly, Florence reaches out for the letter, trying to be as silent as humanly possible - but a moment later, she almost jumps out of her skin as she feels a familiar rough, calloused hand closing firmly and painfully around her wrist. 

Apparently, her father sensed her presence - and it seems he is not  _ quite  _ as insensible as he had first appeared.

Kerr stands up, swaying very unsteadily, glaring fiercely at Florence even as he struggles to focus his gaze on her. 

“Can’t believe you....have nerve to...crawling back here....like cockroach...after what you done,” her father slurs at her. “I’m gonna kill you, my girl.” He cackles, an unhinged, manic and terrifying sound. “ _ I’m gonna kill you! _ ”

Drunkenly, he swings a fist towards Florence’s face. But, after all the cuts, scrapes and bruises he’s given her over the years, tonight he is too slow for her. 

Acting on pure instinct, feeling nothing but that potent mixture of terror, anger and loathing, Florence reaches out, closing her fingers tightly around the nearest weapon she can find - a heavy silver candlestick, one of the many valuable stolen treasures scattered around the apartment waiting to be sold. Summoning all the strength she can muster, without stopping to think, she swings the candlestick towards her father’s face, hard. 

There is a sickening crack as the silver candlestick makes contact with his head. For a moment, the two of them simply stare at each other, as though time has frozen, her father’s eyes wide with shock and rage. Then, as though in slow motion, her father teeters, his eyes rolling back, and falls backwards against the table, sliding down against it and coming to rest in an undignified heap on the floor. 

Heart pounding, scarcely able to believe what she’s done, Florence freezes again, still clutching the heavy candlestick, holding her breath and waiting to see if he’s going to clamber back up from the floor, roaring in rage. When he doesn’t, she tentatively picks up the candle he was using for light and crouches down, trying to ascertain how much damage she has caused.

Her father’s eyes have fluttered closed, and as she holds the candle closer she realises that there’s a small trickle of blood coming from his hairline. Florence feels her own blood go cold for a split second, wondering if she has actually killed him. She can’t become a murderer, she  _ can’t,  _ she cannot have damned her soul to hell and thrown her life away, all for the sake of the piece of human filth that is her father!

Leaning in and listening closely, she feels a rush of relief so strong that it makes her lightheaded as she realises that she can still hear her father breathing shallowly. 

Shaking, Florence stands up and reaches out for Edward’s letter, the letter that had helped to cause all this mess in the first place. 

Hastily tucking it into her sleeve, she immediately turns to go - but something holds her back. 

She turns around, glancing down at the pitiful form that is her father, slumped unconscious on the floor. 

Florence hates him. She  _ hates  _ him. But she knows, too, that if she just leaves him here, with nobody the wiser about his injury, she will be no better than him. He could still die if he is left here unconscious for days with nobody attending to him; she may as well call herself a murderer. Florence knows, if she is ever to consider herself worthy of Edward’s forgiveness, or Mina’s affection, that she has to do  _ something _ . 

Scarcely believing what she is doing, Florence takes the candle, hunting for a piece of paper and some kind of writing implement.

Moments later, Florence closes the front door door quietly behind her. She puts a hastily scrawled note down on the doorstep, weighing it down with the brick they often use as a doorstop to make sure it does not blow away. 

_ Man injured inside this house. Please fetch help.  _

Exhaling slowly, trying and failing to calm her racing heart, Florence turns away from her father’s house, touching her sleeve once again to reassure herself that Edward’s letter is still tucked safely away in there. 

Then, without a second glance, Florence sets off into the night, walking back in the direction of the ABC Cafe. 

* * *

The atmosphere back at the cafe is heavy with gloom. 

Florence had arrived back there earlier than the others and had sat there waiting for them for about an hour, her heart still pounding as the image of her father, unconscious and bleeding from the head, flashed relentlessly through her mind. 

She had felt her mood lift momentarily when Mina had walked in, still unable to believe that somebody so beautiful and kind and compassionate would ever want to kiss her, or indeed care about her at all. Mina had smiled at her briefly, but her expression quickly settled back into melancholy, which told Florence immediately that Mina still hadn’t managed to track Alfred down. 

Edward and George Paget arrived mere moments after Mina; it was evident from their expressions that they had not managed to find him either. 

And now, Edward glances quickly at Florence before looking away again, and she sees that there is still bewildered hurt and betrayal written across his face. She feels another sharp stab of guilt and despair and she opens her mouth, longing to speak to him, to apologise again, to let him know that she’s managed to get his letter back from her father. 

But Edward sits down next to George, looking resolutely away from her now. She can feel Mina’s sympathetic gaze on her again, and she knows that Mina is longing to reach out to her, to reassure her, hold her. But she swallows and looks down at her own lap, giving a small, almost imperceptible nod. She deserves this treatment from Edward. She knows that.

George has fetched drinks for Mina and Edward - though, pointedly, not for Florence - but Edward is merely fidgeting with his tankard distractedly without drinking, lost in his worry.

“George?” he asks quietly. George gives a noncommittal hum in response. “Do you...do you think your brother is safe?”

George lifts his shoulders in a shrug. The effort required for that tiny action seems to drain him of all his remaining energy. He looks up at Edward with despair in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he mutters. “I wish I could say yes. But I just don’t know.”

Edward’s breath hitches audibly, and he blinks rapidly, as though struggling to force back tears. 

“But I promise you this, Drummond.” Edward looks up at George, seemingly startled by the sudden certainty in his tone. “Whether or not we manage to find my brother and bring him home safely” - his voice cracks slightly, but he pushes on - “I will still fight alongside you and your friends. On Alfred’s behalf.” 

Edward stares at him for a moment, taken aback and evidently moved. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs. He attempts to summon a smile of gratitude, but, still steeped in despair, it does not quite reach his eyes. Nevertheless, George nods in acknowledgement of his thanks. 

Silence settles between them again, heavy, uncomfortable and mournful. 

“I...I should probably head home,” Edward says quietly and reluctantly, breaking the silence. “ _ Try  _ to get a little sleep, at least...But you’ll come to me, won’t you? The moment you have any news of him?”

George and Mina both murmur their assent, offering him reassurances that must surely sound hollow even to their own ears and telling him to get some rest. Florence stays silent, her gaze still fixed on her lap, afraid to see the disappointment and hurt in Edward’s eyes again.

She hears the door of the tavern swing shut behind him, and she blinks back tears at the realisation that, once again, Edward has deliberately left without saying goodbye to her. 

There is another moment of tense, heavy silence, which seems to last an age, before George sighs deeply, finishes his drink, and stands wearily. 

“Come on, Mina,” he mutters, pointedly ignoring Florence. “We should probably get home too, let Papa know what’s happening. I suppose it won’t do either us or Alfred any good to stay awake all night, as well as all of last night.” 

Mina gives a small nod. She darts a quick glance towards Florence, who is still looking down at her lap in shame, before standing up and making to follow her brother.

“Mina, wait,” Florence says suddenly, standing up too. Her voice comes out slightly louder than she had intended; Mina as well as almost everyone else in the tiny tavern swivels round to stare at her, and George narrows his eyes in distrust.

“I...can I talk to you for a moment? Alone? Um, please?”

She curses herself for sounding so awkward. Mina’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, but she nods quickly, making to follow Florence towards the same little side room they had used for privacy before. George quickly puts a warning hand on her shoulder.

“Mina…” he mutters. 

“It’s fine, George,” Florence hears Mina say firmly in response. “I won’t be long. I promise.”

George narrows his eyes again; evidently it isn’t being delayed that makes him object to his sister speaking to Florence. But Mina shrugs his hand off and follows Florence, who is waiting for her patiently, and George doesn’t have much choice but to wait for her. 

As soon as Florence closes the door of the side chamber behind them, Mina turns to her expectantly.

“Well? What is it, Florence?”

Florence hesitates, looking at Mina’s beautiful face and feeling unworthy of her again. 

“I...I hope your brother is safe, Mina,” she mutters awkwardly.

Mina gives a hollow little laugh. “Yes, well, I hope so too, Florence,” she responds, her voice strained with anxiety.

“Truly, though,” Florence insists, her eyes locking with Mina’s. “I am...I am  _ so  _ ashamed of what I did. You are too kind and decent, Mina, I don’t think you could imagine feeling this guilt.”

Florence looks at her pleadingly. She sees that Mina’s expression has softened, which gives her the courage to keep speaking. 

“I know I should never have lied to Alfred. I was being possessive. I thought he was trying to take Edward away from me. I thought...I thought that I was in love with Edward, you see.”

Mina’s face falls slightly at these words. “I see,” she says quietly.

Florence moves tentatively closer to her, longing to kiss her frown away. 

“But I have realised, since then,” she whispers, “that I was never in love with Edward. Not really. I was just...infatuated with the  _ idea  _ of being in love with him, I suppose. He was the only person who was ever kind to me, you see. That is...until  _ you  _ came back into my life, Mina. And everything changed. Everything seems a little brighter, when you’re with me.” 

Mina gazes at her, a soft smile spreading slowly across her face, a smile that makes her bright eyes sparkle and makes Florence’s heart melt. Wordlessly, Mina reaches out and strokes her cheek gently. 

Florence’s eyes flutter closed as she revels in the feeling of Mina’s soft, smooth hand against her face. This is so much more than she deserves; this is heaven. 

She’s loath to break the moment; but she knows there’s still one more thing she needs to tell Mina, or else everything she has done this night, everything she has risked, will have been in vain.

“Mina?” she whispers.

“Mmm?” Mina responds, sounding as though she doesn’t want the peaceful moment to end either. 

“I...I know you still don’t know where Alfred is,” she says hesitantly, hating that she has to remind Mina of her worry. “But...if it helps at all...I have managed to get Edward’s letter back from my father.” 

She takes the letter out of her sleeve, holding it out to Mina.

Mina’s eyes widen in amazement. She looks from Florence to the letter and back again, seemingly lost for words.

“I...what? How?” 

Florence shifts uncomfortably, remembering again the crack of the heavy silver candlestick against her father’s head. 

“I...I just did,” she answers evasively. “Look, just...if you find Alfred -  _ when  _ you find Alfred - will you give him that letter? Please?”

Mina nods, though she doesn’t look too hopeful. Taking the letter, she tucks it into her own sleeve, then leans into Florence, taking her hand and pressing their foreheads together gently.

“Thank you,” she whispers. 

Florence nods, her eyes fluttering closed again as she relishes the moment. 

A loud and impatient knock on the door startles them both, making them jump away from each other. 

“Mina!” George’s voice sounds immensely peeved. “Come  _ on _ !”

“I’m coming!” she calls back, without turning away from Florence. 

Mina leans in closer, pressing a tentative kiss to Florence’s lips, and Florence sinks into the kiss, revelling in the soft, sweet taste of Mina’s mouth.

“Goodnight, Florence,” she whispers.

“Goodnight, Mina,” Florence whispers back.

She feels a curious, hollow sensation in her chest as she watches Mina leave, almost as if she has taken Florence’s heart with her. 

* * *

It takes Mina a long while to fall asleep that night. She keeps her candle alight on her bedside table, propped up against her pillows, staring out into the night, fighting against her exhaustion as she wonders where Alfred is in the darkness. 

She can’t believe Florence, her wonderful, beautiful, strong,  _ brave  _ Florence, has actually managed to steal back the letter that was meant for Alfred. But she also can’t stop herself from thinking that, however she managed it, her brutish father must even now be bent on revenge, hunting her down. She thinks perhaps she should have forced George to let Florence come home with them, where she can be safe. As it is, she is left to lie here, sick with fear about Alfred  _ and  _ Florence. 

Eventually, though, Mina’s exhaustion wins out, and she sinks into sleep. But it is hardly a restful sleep; she is tormented by uneasy dreams, making her toss and turn and whimper in the bed.

First, she is running along in bright sunlight, hand in hand with her beautiful Florence, both of them laughing. Florence is beaming, her entire face alight with happiness, more carefree than Mina has ever seen her. Mina stops running, and Florence stops too, turning to face her, both of them suddenly breathless with anticipation. 

Mina tugs Florence in towards her body, longing to kiss those soft lips again. But, in a split second, Florence melts away, vanishing in a moment, and Mina finds herself holding onto nothing but empty air. 

As Mina looks around, dazed and confused, darkness seems to fall in an instant. She hears a familiar, heartbroken sob, and she turns quickly, just in time to see Alfred. He locks eyes with her for a moment, grief and pain written across his face - and then he turns away from her and begins to run in the opposite direction. 

“Alfred!” she cries, hurt that he would reject her help like that. She begins running after him without a second thought, but he does not stop or turn back. “Alfred!  _ Alfred _ !”

“ _ Mina _ ,” she hears Alfred say in response.  _ “Mina. Mina! _ ” 

Still running after him, she frowns in bewilderment. It doesn’t make any sense; he’s still running away from her at full speed, as though desperate not to let her catch up. And yet, he’s still calling out to her, and she can hear him as clearly as if he were standing right next to her. 

_ “Mina!”  _ she hears him call again, louder and more urgent than ever, even though he is vanishing into the distance. 

Mina wakes with a start, terrified in the dark room, feeling as though somebody is staring at her. 

Fumbling clumsily for a match, she hastily relights the candle on her bedside which has sputtered out and holds it up towards the window. 

She jumps violently, almost dropping the candle, covering her hand with her mouth to stop herself from shouting out as relief sweeps through her, making her lightheaded. 

Alfred is tapping on her window. 

_ “Mina!”  _ he calls again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this story has been 'drama drama ANGST drama' basically all the way through XD But fair warning...We're really about to head into the thick of it now...
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading and supporting this side fic as well as my main fic! I hope you're enjoying reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it! <3 <3 xxx


	8. The Hour of Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having returned home, Alfred finally has a chance to read Edward's letter, and he realises that he has had everything all wrong.  
His joy is a little dampened by his father making an unexpected announcement; but, deciding that it is time for him to make amends and take action, Alfred decides to disobey Henry and go where his heart leads him.  
Miscommunications are resolved and hearts mended - but there are still more surprises in store...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle in, kids, because this chapter might be a bit of a game changer - and I might even have given you a (brief) respite from the angst!

Alfred is hesitant as he raps on Mina’s window, whispering her name as he tries to wake her. Perhaps, when she finally notices him there, he’ll see nothing but anger on her face. Perhaps she’ll refuse to even let him in. He can’t say he’d blame her if she didn’t. 

As he watches her, tapping more loudly on the window and whispering more urgently, Mina jumps up suddenly as though wide awake, fumbles for a match to relight the candle on her bedside table and raises the light towards the window. 

And Alfred feels relief seep through him, like a heavy weight being lifted off his shoulders, as she raises a hand to her mouth to stop herself from crying out, and he sees that there is nothing but sheer relief and joy written across her face. 

A split second later, Mina puts the candle back down on the bedside table and darts towards the window, lifting the latch and pulling Alfred firmly inside, into the warmth, with more strength than he would have imagined her to possess. She wraps her arms around him, squeezing him tightly, burying her face in his shoulder. As he wraps his arms tentatively around her in return, Alfred can feel his shirt dampening as she cries against him. 

“Alfred, where have you _ been _ , you idiot?” Mina demands, shaking him slightly. “None of us knew where you were, we’ve been looking all over for you for _ days _\- we’ve been worried sick!”

Alfred feels another sharp jolt of guilt at these words. 

“I’ve just....been walking around the city,” he mumbles awkwardly. “After that Florence girl told me what Edward Drummond’s letter said, I was...I was quite upset. I know it’s stupid, Mina, but he...he means a lot to me. I suppose it really hurt to learn the truth - that I don’t mean anything to _ him _at all.”

His mouth twists into a grimace as he says it. He knows Mina deserves an explanation for his reckless actions, but he has spent the last two days thinking of nothing but Edward’s lack of trust in him and his own foolishness for believing Edward ever cared, filled with self-loathing. He would really rather not dwell on any of it anymore. 

Mina looks at him with compassion written across her face. She opens her mouth to speak, but Alfred gets there before her. 

“I walked along the Seine for a little while,” he mumbles, deciding that, for Mina’s sake, it’s probably best if he doesn’t tell her just _ how _ close to the edge of the river he had walked. After all, she looks worried enough as it is. “I didn’t _ want _to be found. I wanted to be alone.” 

He swallows, closing his eyes for a moment. These past two days, reeling from what had felt like Edward’s betrayal - though he supposes Edward had never actually claimed to believe in him in the first place, it was his own stupid fault for letting himself get so pathetically attached - these past days and nights have been the coldest, darkest, loneliest ones he can remember. Even including the days and weeks immediately following Alexandre’s death. He just hopes to God that he never has to live through anything like this ever again. 

Taking a slow, deep breath, Alfred opens his eyes, meeting Mina’s concerned gaze again.

“But I suppose I realised - eventually - just how selfish I was being,” he tells her, his voice a little firmer and louder. “I was only thinking about myself, completely absorbed in my own pain and self-pity. But then, after a while, I realised how unfair I was being to you, and to George, and to Papa. Regardless of what Edward Drummond thinks of me” - Alfred’s voice cracks slightly as he says his name, thinking of the shock on Edward’s beautiful face when he had lashed out at him the other day, but he pushes on determinedly - “regardless of what _ he _ thinks, you and George and Papa have _ always _ stuck by me, Mina, even at my most pathetic and infuriating. And I will never be able to express how grateful I am to you for that. I came back because I realised that you and George and Papa might need to see me - and because I needed to see you, too. I suppose I realised, _ finally _ , that I couldn’t stay away forever. I know that I’ve put the three of you through hell these past couple of days, even more so than usual. And I am _ so _ sorry for that, Mina.”

He lapses into silence and looks at her, half hopeful, half terrified that she won’t accept his apology. She’d be well within her rights not to after everything he’s put her through, he knows that. 

For a moment Mina just stares back at him, looking slightly stunned by everything he’s just told her. But then she pulls him back into another fierce hug, squeezing him tightly again, and Alfred wraps his arms around her in return, blinking rapidly to try and stop himself from crying in sheer relief. Not for the first time in his life, he wonders what he has ever done to deserve having Mina as a sister. 

“Papa and George will be _ so _happy to see you home safe, Alfred,” she whispers, beaming at him and wiping the back of her hand hastily across her eyes as though she, too, is trying to stem her tears. Alfred smiles and Mina pauses, looking up at him hesitantly. 

“But I have something to tell you that might surprise you,” she says, smiling at him again. “We weren’t the only ones who were missing you, Alfred.”

He frowns slightly, puzzled, raising an eyebrow at her quizzically. 

“Edward Drummond,” Mina clarifies. “He was desperate to know where you were as well. He’s been _ so _worried about you, Alfred.”

Alfred takes his arms away from her, recoiling from her abruptly. Is this some kind of joke? No, surely Mina wouldn’t do that to him, and certainly not right now...perhaps she’s just lying to him to try and make him feel a little less like a pathetic fool?

“Why on earth would _ Edward Drummond _have been worried about me, Mina?” he demands, his voice cracking again as he says the name. “He wrote me a letter telling me that I’m not welcome in his precious revolution, remember? He thinks that if I join him, I will betray him.” God, Alfred really wishes the hurt wasn’t quite so obvious in his voice. 

Mina shakes her head, still smiling at him gently. 

“No,” she says simply.

Alfred stares at her. 

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I mean no, that’s not what Edward’s letter said. You never actually _ saw _the letter, did you, Alfred?”

Alfred gapes at her, struggling to comprehend what she’s saying, his mind reeling.

“No...but…” 

Mina turns around, going to her bedside table, opening the drawer and rummaging inside it. A moment later, she turns back to Alfred with a triumphant grin, holding out a folded piece of parchment that looks rather battered. Alfred feels his heart leap in his chest as he recognises Edward Drummond’s rushed cursive through the parchment. 

“Florence’s father stole Edward’s letter, but she managed to steal it back from him,” Mina explains quietly, smiling at the expression on Alfred’s face. “She was lying to you when she told you what it said, Alfred. But she wanted me to tell you how sorry she is that she ever lied.”

Mina holds the letter out to him and Alfred takes it from her tentatively, his hands shaking, his heart pounding in his chest. 

Trembling, he unfolds it and, at long last, he begins to read the words that Edward had meant for him. 

_ Dear Alfred, _

_ I can scarcely begin to describe to you how upset I was when I turned around to find that you had left the ABC Cafe without a word. My friends tell me that you probably left because my thoughtless, careless words had hurt you. They said my stupidity had likely made you think that you were not welcome. _

_ Firstly, I want to offer you the most humble and sincere apology that I possibly can - if I truly _ have _ made you believe that you are unwanted or unwelcome, then I am utterly ashamed of myself, because that could not be further from the truth. _

_ When I told you that somebody who was truly determined not to believe in a better world would leave us to fight for our cause alone, and go back to their own life, I certainly wasn’t trying to tell you that _ you _ should leave us! Apparently it was a foolish way of saying it and I should have been much clearer - but what I was actually trying to tell you, Alfred, is that I don’t believe you’re quite as cynical as you want people to think you are, or else you wouldn’t have come back to us. And I was so very glad that you came back to us, Alfred. I _ never _ wanted you to leave. _

_ I understand that you are frightened to let yourself have faith, Alfred. And I understand that you believe in _ yourself _ least of all. _

_ But what I need you to know is this: _ I _ believe in you. I believe in you totally and utterly. I have believed in you from the moment you set foot in the ABC Cafe, from the moment I first laid eyes on you. I know that you probably won’t believe me when I say it, but you are truly the most amazing person I have ever met. You could be magnificent, you could be a hero - no, actually, that’s not right. You _ are _ magnificent. You _ are _ a hero. You just need to start believing in yourself more. _

_ I am so, so sorry that I hurt you with my foolishness before, and I hope you will be able to forgive me. Because I don’t just _ want _ you at my side for this revolution, Alfred. I _ need _ you at my side. _

_ Yours, always, _

_ Edward. _

“Alfred?” Mina asks gently. 

Alfred looks up from the letter, his hands still trembling, his eyes glazed with tears. He scarcely dares to believe what he’s just read. 

“Sorry, Mina, I just need a minute...to...to read…”

He trails off as he reads through the letter again, impatiently reaching up to brush the tears out of his eyes, feeling a huge grin spreading involuntarily across his face as his heart simultaneously swells in his chest, warming him from the inside out. 

He had been so devastated by Edward’s rejection, Edward’s betrayal. He remembers how angry he had been the other day when Edward had told him how worried he was, believing him to be a hypocrite. 

But as it turns out, he’d been completely and totally wrong. 

Edward had never wanted him to leave. He believes in him. _ Edward Drummond _ believes in _ him _ . _ Edward Drummond _ , for some unfathomable reason, thinks that _ he _is amazing. Edward has complete faith in him - and he wants Alfred at his side for the revolution. 

“He...he says he’s sorry for ever hurting me, Mina,” Alfred says, looking up at Mina again, his voice shaking. “He says he never wanted me to leave.”

Mina smiles at him, moving closer and rubbing a hand reassuringly up and down his arm. 

“I know he didn’t,” she says gently. 

“He says...he says that he _ believes _ in me, Mina,” Alfred breathes, still dazed and hardly daring to believe it. “He’s believed in me since the first moment I set foot in the ABC Cafe, apparently. “He says that he just needs me to try and believe in _ myself _.” 

For the first time in years, Alfred can’t seem to stop himself from grinning.

Watching him, Mina suddenly reaches up as though to wipe her eyes. 

“Why are _ you _crying?” he asks her, still beaming. He can’t help it. 

“I just…” Mina looks as though she’s searching for the right words. “It’s been so long, Alfred. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you looking this..._ happy. _”

He chuckles, wiping away another tear. Mina darts forwards, wrapping her arms around him tightly again, and he reciprocates. 

“And Edward Drummond is right, you know,” she murmurs. “You _ do _ need to start believing in yourself more. We’ve been trying to tell you that for _ years _, Alfred.”

She pokes him in the side playfully and Alfred grins slightly. They lapse into a comfortable silence for a moment. 

“Wait,” Alfred says suddenly, drawing back and frowning slightly as he remembers what Mina had said before giving him Edward’s letter. “Florence was lying to me?”

Mina hesitates, looking strangely conflicted for a split second. She nods reluctantly.

“But...but what reason would Florence have to lie to me about this letter?” he asks, baffled. 

Mina pauses for a moment, looking as though she is choosing her words carefully before speaking.

“Florence is very attached to Edward Drummond,” she explains. “Or at least - she was.” She gives a small, secretive smile, and Alfred raises an eyebrow slightly, but she does not answer his unspoken question. “From what I can gather, she fancied herself in love with him,” Mina continues. “But she told me how worried she was when she saw the two of you together, Alfred. She was scared of losing Edward. She was frightened that he might become _ yours _.”

Alfred sucks in a breath at these words, feeling rather lightheaded and giddy as his heart swells in his chest. 

Edward become _ his _....

Without stopping to think, he moves away from Mina and turns back towards the window. 

“I need to go and see him,” he announces, his heart pounding almost painfully in his chest. Every inch of him seems to be crying out for Edward Drummond. 

Mina sighs in exasperation. 

“You _ do _ need to speak to him,” she agrees. “But not right _ now _ , for goodness sake, Alfred! Not right this second! Need I remind you that it is the middle of the night and you’ve only just come back home? _ Please _ , Alfred, for my sake, for George’s, for Papa’s - can’t you at least rest in your bed for a few hours? Can’t you at least wait until the morning, at least show Papa that you are safely back home before you go running off _ again _? Or do you want him to just die of worry instead?”

Alfred hesitates, turning back to look at her. He _ needs _ to see Edward after reading that letter, he’s _ desperate _. 

But perhaps Mina has a point, as usual. She’s right; he’s probably been quite selfish and reckless enough already over the past couple of days. He feels another sharp twinge of guilt as he thinks about what he must have put his brother and father through. He supposes he really does owe it to them to stay at home, at least until the morning. He should let them see that he’s safe. He can wait a few more hours, can’t he?

He sighs and nods, smiling at Mina again as he walks back towards her. 

“You’re right,” he tells her. “As always.” 

She breathes a sigh of relief, smiling at him. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around her gently again. “For everything.”

Mina grins as Alfred presses a kiss to the top of her head. 

Smiling at her once again, he quietly pads towards the door, still reeling from Edward’s gorgeous letter. He feels giddy and a little unsteady on his feet. He’s not sure he could stop grinning if he tried. 

* * *

Still dazed by Edward’s letter, it takes Alfred a long while to fall asleep. 

It seems to him that, when he finally closes his eyes and drifts off, it is only a few minutes later that he is woken by bright sunlight streaming between the gap in the curtains, and the sound of a gentle knock on the door.

“Come in,” he mutters, a little incoherently. He’s never been particularly good at mornings at the best of times. 

The door opens and Mina puts her head around it tentatively, looking a little uncertain. Her face lights up in a relieved smile when she sees Alfred in bed, as though she had been half-afraid he might have run off again in the night. He feels another little twinge of guilt at what he must have put her through.

“Good morning,” she says gently. “I haven’t told Papa or George that you’re back yet. I thought you might like me to come downstairs with you?”

Alfred smiles back at her. Truly, he does not deserve Mina. 

“I would like that, thank you,” he says, rubbing at his eyes. “I’ll just be a minute.”

He gestures to his wardrobe, and Mina nods. 

“I’ll be just outside the door,” she tells him reassuringly. “Whenever you’re ready.”

He nods, and she retreats, closing the door quietly. Alfred gets up, still in a slight daze as he dresses himself. He’ll see his Papa and George and apologise, and then…._ he’ll get to see Edward. _

He feels his heart swell in his chest as he remembers the words of that letter again, a grin spreading across his face - but then he freezes, remembering again the last time he had seen Edward Drummond. Alfred had believed what Florence told him, believed that Edward didn’t want him and had no faith in him, and so he had been convinced that Edward was being a hypocritical liar when he’d claimed to have been worried about him. 

God, the things Alfred had _ said _ to him...He feels a hot flush of shame spread across his cheeks as he recalls the way he’d lashed out at Edward, angry and hurt and desperate not to let Edward see how vulnerable he truly was. And of course, now that Alfred has actually _ read _Edward’s letter, he knows that all of his anger and spite was completely unwarranted and unjustified. 

Alfred has a lot to apologise for. He supposes that all he can do is pray that Edward will forgive him.

Sighing, he takes one last glance at his reflection in the dresser mirror, running a hand nervously through his bright hair. He still looks rather pale from lack of sleep, not to mention the stress and pain of the last few days, but he supposes there’s not much he can do about that now.

Taking a deep breath to prepare himself, he opens the door and walks out into the corridor to meet Mina. 

“Ready?” she asks him quietly. Alfred nods nervously, and Mina takes his hand as they walk downstairs together, squeezing it gently and reassuringly. 

As they approach the door to the living room, Alfred hears voices murmuring quietly on the other side. He glances nervously at Mina and she squeezes his hand gently again. 

“I’ll go in first and explain to them, alright?” she says quietly. He swallows and nods, already feeling guilt and anxiety twisting in his stomach. As usual, Mina seems to read his mind. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they know how sorry you are,” she whispers.

Alfred smiles at her, unable to find the right words to tell her how grateful he is, and she stands on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek before heading into the living room and closing the door quietly behind her. 

Twisting his hands together, Alfred stands outside the door, his heart thumping in his chest as he listens to the murmur of voices on the other side. He struggles to stay calm and still, resisting the temptation to bolt - Mina is one thing, but his father and brother are quite another. What if they’re both utterly furious with him, what if _ neither _of them are willing to forgive him for what he’s put them through? He knows how frustrated George has been getting, trying to take care of him and protect him from himself - what if this time, he’s gone too far?

Lost in his thoughts, his panic rising, Alfred is startled by the door suddenly opening. He looks up to find himself face to face with George. He swallows nervously and offers his brother a tentative smile.

There is a moment of silence as they look at each other, before George speaks. 

“Alfred, you _ idiot _.”

Alfred flushes slightly, opening his mouth to apologise - but before he can get any words out, George strides forwards, closing the gap between them, and wraps him up in a tight bear hug. 

Feeling relief coursing through him, Alfred closes his eyes and returns his younger brother’s hug. 

“I’m sorry, George,” he whispers. 

George merely shakes his head, squeezing Alfred tighter. 

“You’re an idiot,” he repeats, though his broad grin rather takes the edge off his words. 

As Alfred gives him a sheepish, apologetic grin in return, he hears the uneven wooden thumping that signals his father approaching with the aid of his walking stick. 

“Out of the way, please, George,” Henry says gruffly. “I need to see my boy.” 

George chuckles, pulling Alfred into the room. With a quick glance at Mina, who smiles and nods encouragingly from her position behind Henry’s recently vacated armchair, Alfred approaches his father hesitantly.

“Papa...I…” 

But Alfred is cut off as Henry sets aside his walking stick and pulls him fiercely into his arms. 

“Thank god, thank god,” his father says in a somewhat croaky voice. “I thought perhaps that _ bastard _Kerr had found you and done something to you to take revenge on me. I’ve been worried sick, my boy!”

Alfred pulls back slightly, frowning, noticing with another lurch of guilt as he does so that his father’s eyes are bright with tears. 

“Kerr? John Kerr, you mean?” he asks, a little bewildered. “As in, the man you rescued Mina from when we were children?” Henry nods gruffly. 

“But...but I don’t understand,” Alfred says, feeling rather lost. “What does he have to do with any of this?”

Henry and George exchange a meaningful glance. Clearly, Alfred has missed a lot over the past few days. 

“You remember that, the night you ran away” (Alfred winces in guilt again), “we ran outside to find Florence Kerr on our doorstep? Saying that she had a letter to deliver to you?” Alfred nods, still puzzled. “Do you remember how we heard a scream?”

Alfred nods again; in the wake of everything that had happened that night, he’d almost forgotten hearing a scream at all.

“I thought Mina said it was _ her _that screamed, because Florence Kerr startled her?” Alfred asks, turning to look at Mina, who flushes slightly and looks down at the floor. “Although…” Alfred trails off as he stares at Mina, still avoiding Henry’s gaze and shuffling her feet slightly in embarrassment. He hadn’t really considered it too closely at the time, being rather preoccupied with what Florence had told him about Edward’s letter. But, now that he thinks about it, it hadn’t actually sounded like Mina’s voice at all. Besides which, the scream had been rather too long and loud to have been provoked by something as trivial as Mina being momentarily shocked by Florence’s presence. 

“Yes, well, as it turns out, Mina was lying to me,” Henry says gruffly, shooting her a dark look. “She ‘didn’t want to worry me’, apparently…” Mina flushes again as George shoots her an unimpressed look too, raising his eyebrow at her. 

“Anyway, it was Florence Kerr who screamed the other night, not Mina,” Henry continues. Alfred frowns, still confused. Henry sighs. 

“She screamed to raise the alarm about her father,” he mutters, sounding reluctantly thankful. Alfred stares, the pieces of the puzzle finally beginning to fit together in his mind. 

“That bastard was practically on our doorstep, Alfred,” Henry says, his voice growing louder now; Alfred notices his Papa’s hands have balled into fists at his side. “He was armed, and he had his gang of thugs with him.”

Alfred stares at his father in horror.

“But...why, Papa?” he asks. “Why would Kerr suddenly come for you _ now _, so many years after you last saw him?”

To his surprise, Henry’s face suddenly takes on a slightly guilty expression. 

“Well...strictly speaking, it hasn't actually been years since the last time I saw him,” he responds hesitantly. “In fact, Kerr and I encountered each other only a few days ago.”

As Alfred gapes at his father, who is still looking shamefaced for once in his life, he sees out of the corner of his eye that Mina and George are both gaping at Henry too. Apparently, this is news to the two of them as well. Henry sighs.

“He was trying to scam some money out of me, _ again _ ,” he says heavily. “It appears to be a daily pastime of the man’s. But I didn’t realise who he was at first, and he didn’t initially realise who _ I _was, either. Once he recognised me, though, he immediately tried to attack me. He pulled a knife on me, if you must know.”

Alfred, George and Mina all make simultaneous incoherent noises of outrage and alarm, but Henry waves a hand to silence them. 

“I’m fine, as you can see,” he says grimly. “I’ve faced much worse in my time, as you know.” He gestures to his wooden leg. “Apparently the man has got it into his head that I somehow ‘robbed’ him the night I paid to take Mina away. But I got away from him the other day when he attacked me - I knocked him over quite hard in the process - and now I don’t think he’s going to stop until he’s had his vengeance. He only ran the other night because his daughter gave him no choice, it seems. But he’ll be back soon, I know it. He knows where we live now.”

“Papa, you _ have _to make sure he can’t get to you!” Alfred exclaims.

Henry shakes his head at him.

“Don’t you see?” he asks. “It’s not _ myself _I’m worried about - it’s the three of you!”

Alfred frowns. “_ Us _ ? What quarrel does Kerr have with any of _ us _?”

Henry looks back at him, and something seems to tighten in his face. 

“I’m quite sure Kerr understands that hurting any of my children will be much more painful than anything he can do to me,” he says, and Alfred sees his father flinch as though the mere thought of anything happening to any of them causes him physical pain. 

Henry swallows and stands up straighter. The familiar look of steely determination in his eyes is clearer than Alfred has ever seen it before.

“But I will _ not _ give that bastard a chance to hurt _ any _of you,” Henry swears. “None of us will be here by the time Kerr returns.”

Alfred stares at him, praying that he has misunderstood.

“Not be here? What do you mean, we won’t be here, Papa? Surely…”

“I mean that we are leaving Paris, Alfred,” his father responds. “All of us. As soon as possible.”

Alfred feels as though his heart is sinking through the floor. Leave Paris? _ Now? _ How can he possibly do that? He _ needs _to get to Edward Drummond, as soon as possible! He shakes his head slightly, dazed, hoping desperately that he has imagined those words.

“No…”

“_ Yes _, Alfred,” Henry insists sternly. “This city is far too dangerous for us now. Kerr has given me ample proof that he is a vicious madman - not to mention those bloody students, who seem to be so insistent on their own destruction that they’re likely to take half the city down with them when they go up in flames.”

Alfred flinches violently at the thought of Edward Drummond being hurt, Edward in pain. 

“But Papa,” Alfred exclaims, desperately trying to reason with him. “We can’t just _ leave _…”

“Oh, you’d like to stay put now, Alfred? You _ don’t _want to run away? Is this your new philosophy, then?” Henry asks him sardonically. 

Alfred flushes furiously, glaring at his father, although he knows full well that he deserves the sharp words. 

“I wanted us to leave earlier, as soon as I actually got the _ truth _ from Mina,” Henry says pointedly, and Mina flushes and looks down at the floor again. “I have already explained all of this to her and George. But, as none of us had any idea where you _ were _, Alfred” - he returns Alfred’s glare, and Alfred averts his gaze, shamefaced again - “we could hardly leave the city without you, and just hope that you would know where we’d gone and follow us there. But now you’re back, so it’s settled, thank god. We will leave Paris this evening.” 

“But Papa -” Alfred tries again, but his father swiftly cuts him off. 

“_ Enough _ , Alfred,” Henry says firmly, a warning flash in his eyes, and Alfred knows that he will brook no further argument. “Do not argue with me on this, my boy. I _ need _to make sure that the three of you are safe. There is nothing in the world so important to me as that. Do you understand?”

Henry fixes him with a piercing look. Alfred hesitates, weighing his options - and then he nods, looking down at the floor to avoid his father’s eyes. 

The room is filled with a tense, uncomfortable silence for a moment, before Henry nods stiffly and speaks again, his voice a little gentler now. 

“As I say, we will be leaving this evening. I will let you three have the next few hours to collect your things together, and to...to make any farewells that you might wish to make.” 

Alfred notices his father giving him a quick, sympathetic glance as he says these words, before hastily looking away again. Of course, he thinks to himself. Henry knows full well how much he has been isolating himself over these past few years. And Henry had heard what Florence had said to Alfred the other night, about Edward not wanting him and not believing in him. No doubt his father is trying to be diplomatic - as much as he knows how to be, at least - but he doesn’t actually believe Alfred has anybody left that he feels connected to outside of this family. He thinks there isn’t anybody Alfred would want to say farewell to before leaving Paris. 

But his father doesn’t know what Edward Drummond’s letter _ actually _ said. His father doesn’t know that Edward Drummond believes in _ him _ , Alfred Paget. His father doesn’t know that Edward Drummond confessed that he not only wants him at his side, but _ needs _him at his side. 

And because his father doesn’t know any of this, he also doesn’t understand that Alfred isn’t going to leave Paris. He isn’t going to go anywhere without Edward Drummond. 

There is another tense, awkward moment of silence as Alfred continues to avoid Henry’s eyes, feeling Mina and George’s gazes lingering on him. Henry clears his throat somewhat awkwardly before speaking again. 

“I will leave you to pack,” he mutters. He hesitates for a moment and looks at Alfred as though he is wondering whether to say something else. Evidently deciding against it, he closes his mouth and turns to leave the room, closing the door rather sharply behind him. 

Alfred waits a few moments, listening to the distinctive clunking sound of his father walking slowly upstairs. As soon as he’s sure Henry is out of earshot, he turns to Mina and George, his heart pounding. 

“I am _ not _leaving Paris,” he announces in a low voice. “I’m not going anywhere, except to find Edward.”

Mina sighs wearily. “No. I thought as much,” she says. “But it’s not that simple, Alfred.”

“It is _ exactly _that simple,” he retorts. He turns to George, who is grinning slightly despite everything. 

“Mina showed me Edward’s letter, George,” he explains. “Florence Kerr was lying to me - Edward said he _ does _ believe in me, he _ does _want me at his side!”

He feels another grin spreading across his own face as he says the words; he still scarcely dares to believe it, it seems too good to be true. 

“I know he does,” George responds, grinning back at his brother. “He’s made that fairly clear to me over the past day.” His grin fades as he looks at Alfred more sternly. 

“He was trying to find you, Alfred,” George says quietly. “And you weren’t making it easy for him. Drummond was going out of his mind with worry - we all were.” 

Alfred blinks, still dazed at the idea of Edward being desperately worried about him. He looks back at George, guilt twisting in his stomach again.

“I really am sorry that I put you all through that, George,” he murmurs, widening his eyes imploringly. “I believed that he didn’t have any faith in me; and so I suppose I gave up on myself. But now I’ve actually read his letter, I know he _ does _believe in me after all” - he grins again as he says those words, reaching up to impatiently brush away a tear of happiness that’s trying to escape - “and so I will try my hardest to start believing in myself as well.”

A delighted grin begins to spread across George’s face.

“You know what, George?” Alfred continues. “You’ve been right, all this time. I need to stop wallowing in self-pity. It’s time to get up and _ do _something.” 

George grins wider, shaking his head a little, pride and relief written across his face. 

“I’ve been trying to tell you to believe in yourself for _ years, _Alfred,” he says. “But that’s fine - listen to Edward Drummond instead of to me, why don’t you?” 

He gives an exaggerated sigh, and Alfred rolls his eyes slightly. 

“Well? Are you coming, George?” he asks. He grins at his brother mischievously, feeling, for the first time in many years, the excitement of adventure swelling up inside his chest. “Or are you going to be a good obedient boy and stay here instead?”

George lifts his chin defiantly, his eyes flashing as he rises to Alfred’s challenge. 

“You know, I seem to remember that I made Drummond a promise to fight alongside him, on your behalf,” he answers, in a mock-thoughtful voice. “And I suppose I would feel rather a poor sport if I went and withdrew that promise, just because you happen to be back. So my answer is yes, Alfred. I rather think I _ will _come with you.”

Alfred nods, feeling an immense sense of gratitude at his brother’s constant support. 

He steps forwards towards Mina, reaching out to grasp her hand and squeeze it gently. 

“Thank you for always believing in me, Mina,” he whispers. He turns back to George.

“You ready, George?”

George nods firmly, and the two of them turn towards the door.

“Wait!” Mina cries out, and the two of them pause in their tracks, simultaneously turning back to their sister and raising their eyebrows.

“You can’t just - you can’t just _ leave _! What am I supposed to say to Papa?”

Alfred exchanges a glance with George, chewing on his lip. It’s not that he wants to hurt his father, of course he doesn’t. But there’s no way he can leave Paris, leave Edward. And evidently his father does not understand that.

“Mina, right now I’m only going to go and speak to Edward,” he tells her, trying to make his voice reassuring. “George and I will probably be back in a few hours.” 

Mina continues to look anxious and unconvinced.

“But, if you _ must _ say something to Papa,” Alfred continues, “you can feel free to tell him that I’m not going anywhere and, what’s more, you can inform him that he can’t just _ order _us to leave Paris with him.” 

Mina raises an eyebrow at him silently, frowning. Alfred sighs, realising that it’s probably going a step too far to expect her to deliver such a deliberately provocative message. 

“Alright, fine, I can tell Papa that part myself,” he mutters reluctantly. “Just...please don’t worry about it, Mina. I will sort things out with Papa. I promise.” 

Mina bites her lip, still looking worried, but after a moment she nods reluctantly. Relieved, Alfred moves forward again to give her a parting kiss on the forehead. 

“You truly are a pearl among women, Mina.”

“Hurry back,” she whispers, fear in her voice. Alfred nods.

“We will.”

  
  


* * *

In the ABC Cafe, Edward is struggling to stay focused on the myriad of tasks in front of him - double-checking that they have an adequate supply of gunpowder, consulting their various maps of the city to ensure that they all have the correct routes and sites highlighted, ensuring that there are enough weapons and materials to build a barricade, confirming that everyone is agreed on the plan of action, and, of course, reassuring and continuing to boost the spirits of the others around him. 

But he has to admit that, at the moment, he is finding all these tasks, which are usually second nature to him, rather difficult, if not almost impossible. His and George’s failure to find Alfred and make sure he is safe is still eating away at him, making his stomach churn with fear and anxiety, and as a result he had barely managed to drift off to sleep at all last night, much like the previous one. He can’t seem to make his mind focus on any one task or make himself listen properly when people ask him for advice, even though he knows full well how important this is - he can’t stop his gaze from drifting frequently over towards the door, even though he realises how foolish it is to expect Alfred to willingly come back to him after the lie that Florence had told him. 

Speaking of Florence, she is still hovering silently at his side like a shadow - albeit a very awkward and silently apologetic shadow now. He is still furious and hurt by her betrayal, and part of him is tempted to tell her coldly to leave him alone, that he needs some space, that she is no longer welcome at his side. 

But he knows how immensely guilty he would feel if he said any of those things - after all, it was he who had allowed her to come to these meetings in the first place, and he has been protecting and taking care of Florence Kerr for so long now that it seems like a duty, even if he happens to be very angry with her at the moment. Edward knows that Florence needs him; God knows that nobody else in the world ever seems to be bothered taking care of her, or even acknowledging her existence. There is a lot of pain and darkness in her life - perhaps it was inevitable that she would lash out and damage someone at some point, even with Edward doing his best to help her and steer her towards the light. And besides, her guilt and remorse is clear for anyone to see; perhaps that is punishment enough without Edward being cruel to her on top of it all. 

As Edward struggles to focus on what Albert is telling him, trying not to show his irritation at Florence’s constant, silent presence at his side, he jumps slightly as the door of the tavern unexpectedly bangs open behind him. 

Turning quickly to see who the latecomer is, Edward’s heart seems to stop. His mouth falling open, he wonders for a split second if he is merely imagining what he has been so desperate to see.

George Paget is standing in the doorway - and at his side stands Alfred himself. 

Staring at Alfred, mesmerised, Edward feels for a moment as though the rest of the tavern has melted away, the loud noises and the chatter of the others fading away into silence. _ How can he be here? _

Alfred is staring right back at him, without breaking his gaze for a second, and Edward can’t help but notice that there is no trace in Alfred’s face of the anger and resentment which he had shown Edward so clearly when they had met the other day. There is nothing but relief and - dare Edward even hope it - _ joy? _

It has been scarcely two days since the last time Edward saw him, yet he feels slightly taken aback, once again, by Alfred’s beauty. The gold of his hair which seems to catch every ray of light in the room, the deep blue of his eyes, the alabaster skin - perhaps Edward is a fool to entertain such fanciful thoughts, but he could almost believe Alfred Paget to be an angel who has somehow lost his way and wandered into a room full of ordinary, inferior humans. 

Edward is so lost in staring, so lost in his relief that, for some reason, _ Alfred has returned _, that it takes him a moment to realise that Alfred is no longer hovering in the doorway with his brother, but walking directly towards him. 

George, still standing in the doorway with relief written across his face, shoots Edward a grin and a wink across the room, and before Edward knows it, he is standing face to face with Alfred. 

For a moment, they just stare at each other, drinking each other in. Edward can feel everyone’s eyes on them, including Florence, but at the moment he cannot bring himself to care about anything that isn’t Alfred Paget. 

“I need to speak to you,” Alfred murmurs, so quietly that nobody could possibly hear him except for Edward and Florence, who is still hovering at his side. Edward feels a thrill go through his body at these words. “Is there somewhere quiet we can go?”

“Oh...um....” Still drinking in the sight of Alfred’s beautiful face, and still reeling from the unexpected return of the man he’d been longing for more than anything else in the world, Edward is finding it rather a struggle to form coherent sentences. 

Rather unexpectedly, it’s Florence who breaks the silence and comes to his rescue. 

“I believe that little room over there affords some privacy” she says quietly with a small smile, gesturing with her head towards a little side chamber off the main tavern room. “I can stand guard, make sure that nobody disturbs you, monsieurs.” 

Both men stare at her for a moment, rather taken aback by this offer. 

“Thank you, Florence,” Edward manages eventually, giving her a small smile in return. Alfred nods at her in thanks, attempting a smile which seems somewhat forced. 

Florence nods in acknowledgement of their thanks, and follows at a distance as the two men head swiftly towards the little room she’d indicated, closing it quietly behind them. 

The room is much smaller than Edward had expected, not a great deal bigger than a cupboard, in fact. He turns to Alfred immediately. 

For a moment, as he gazes into Alfred’s startlingly blue eyes, his heart pounding relentlessly in his chest, there is another silence between them, a silence heavy with all of the unspoken things between them. 

“You’re back,” Edward whispers, before he has even thought the words through. “Thank god. Thank _ god. _ I didn’t know where you _ were _, Alfred. I couldn’t eat...I couldn’t sleep…”

“I’m sorry,” Alfred whispers back, gazing at Edward with wide eyes, eyes that Edward could happily drown in, as though begging him to understand how sincere he is. “I’m sorry for running away in the first place, and I am so, _ so _sorry for all of the things that I said to you the other day, Edward. I was angry, and I was hurt. I thought that you were trying to tell me you didn’t believe in me. And I was told that you didn’t want me to come back.”

Edward opens his mouth to protest, but Alfred speaks again hastily. 

“I know better now,” he explains. “I _ finally _managed to read your letter, Mina gave it to me when I returned home last night - it was beautiful, Edward. Apparently your friend Florence managed to steal it back from her father, and she gave it back to Mina to pass on to me. Apparently she asked Mina to tell me how sorry she is for everything, and especially for lying to me about your letter.”

“Florence stole the letter back from her father? Florence apologised?” Edward echoes, with a glance towards the door of the tiny room, where he knows Florence is standing guard for them on the other side at this very moment. Alfred nods.

He feels like his head is reeling, this is too much information for him to process at once. He knows how dangerous Florence’s father can be, he knows that she lives in constant fear of him, though in her pride she would hate to think that Edward or indeed anyone else knew that. That’s why he’s tried so hard to protect her as long as he’s known her, why he’s always tried to give her shelter. The risk she must have taken stealing that letter back from her father...and all because she wanted to redeem herself after what she’d done...all to help him and Alfred....

Edward shakes himself, bringing himself back to this precious, fragile little moment with Alfred. He needs to make absolutely sure that there is no more miscommunication between them. 

“I’m sorry too, Alfred,” he whispers. “What I said the other night...it was a thoughtless and idiotic way to phrase what I was trying to say.”

Alfred looks at him, his eyes alight with hope, and Edward feels his heart turn over in his chest. Gazing at his face, Edward has to struggle not to lose his train of thought, just as he had the very first time he had caught sight of Alfred. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to ground himself. It’s essential that he chooses his words as carefully as possible.

“I just meant...what I was trying to tell you...is that we’ve always got to keep _ trying, _ Alfred, or else we would never get anywhere in life. I _ never _ meant to say that I didn’t want you here. Of _ course _I want you here. I wanted you back, the moment I realised you’d left, Alfred.”

A smile is spreading slowly over Alfred’s face, making him look more beautiful than ever, and it gives Edward the confidence to keep speaking. 

“And of _ course _ I believe in you. I know that you’ve been hurt badly before, and I can’t tell you how much I wish I could take your pain away. But the thing is, I _ know _ that you have the power and the passion to fight back against the people who have hurt you, the people who continue to hurt so many others. I believe in you _ completely _, Alfred Paget.” 

Instinctively, Edward has been edging closer to Alfred as he speaks; he doesn’t even realise it until he suddenly finds himself almost nose to nose with him in the tiny confined space, so close that he can feel Alfred’s trembling breath on his lips. His breath hitches in his chest as he suddenly realises that Alfred is gazing at him with tremulous hope, a silent question in his beautiful blue eyes. Edward can think of only one way to answer that question.

Without stopping to think, Edward surges forwards, pressing a kiss firmly against Alfred’s temptingly soft mouth. Immediately, he feels a delicious sense of warmth and joy rushing through his body - this is wonderful, this is everything he’s been wanting since he first laid eyes on Alfred Paget. This is _ right _.

Edward pulls back far sooner than he wants to, his eyes darting over Alfred’s face, needing to make sure that Alfred is comfortable with this. But the dazed, awestruck look on Alfred’s face tells him quickly that Alfred is _ more _than comfortable. And if his expression were not enough, then the way that Alfred immediately reaches out and pulls Edward’s mouth firmly back to his own, kissing him back as urgently as if his life depends upon it, sends the message rather clearly. 

They break apart only when the need for air becomes unescapable. Breathing hard, resting his forehead gently against Alfred’s, Edward feels a heady sense of joy and contentment spreading through him; at this moment, he doesn’t think he could stop smiling even if he wanted to. Watching him through his eyelashes, Edward sees that Alfred’s eyes are still closed, his own long eyelashes fluttering against his alabaster cheek, as though he isn’t quite ready to come back to earth yet. 

As Edward gazes at him, Alfred exhales with a soft little sigh, an awestruck smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and he moves his hand from where it was resting on the nape of Edward’s neck, twining Edward’s dark curls around his fingers. 

Closing his eyes again in pure joy and relief, revelling in the quiet intimacy of the moment, Edward grins at the sensation of Alfred gently nuzzling their noses together. 

So _ this _is what it feels like to fall in love. 

Eyes still closed, forehead still resting against Alfred’s, Edward opens his mouth to whisper to him, to tell Alfred how much he adores him. 

But before he can get the words out, he is interrupted by a sudden commotion from the main room, and barely a second later the door opens on them unceremoniously, revealing one of Edward’s fellow revolutionaries, Albert, standing there with a rather stunned expression, Florence standing awkwardly at his side and looking sheepish at failing in her guard duties. 

Edward and Alfred jump apart hastily. 

“Albert,” Edward starts, trying not to make his irritation at the interruption too obvious. “Could you perhaps wait a moment? Alfred and I were in the middle of...of a discussion…”

He can feel himself flushing as he speaks, but Albert doesn’t seem to notice. 

“I’m sorry, but I think that you might want to hear this, Drummond,” he responds, sounding a little breathless. “It is a matter of some urgency.”

Something in his tone sets off alarm bells in Edward’s head. Frowning slightly, he exchanges a quick glance with Alfred, who looks as though he still hasn’t quite come back down to earth yet. Turning back to Albert, he nods quickly and follows him back out into the main room of the tavern, Alfred following close on his heels. 

Everyone in the tavern, including George, seems to be standing in stunned silence as Edward and Alfred emerge. Looking around, Edward quickly realises that all of them seem to be staring at a small boy standing near the door of the tavern, dressed in ragged clothing and rather covered in dirt. Evidently, he has just come in from the street. 

Everyone looks toward Edward in silence, clearly expecting him to take charge of the situation, as usual. 

“Good morning,” Edward says hesitantly to the child. “Was there some message you wanted to deliver, lad?”

The boy takes a deep breath, fixing his gaze boldly on Edward’s face. 

“General Lemarque is dead,” he announces bluntly, in a very carrying voice for one so small. 

There is a moment of billowing, deafening silence in the room, as Edward tries to work out if he has understood the boy correctly. 

“Lemarque is dead?” he echoes in disbelief. “The people’s man?” 

As the silence seems to stretch endlessly, Edward’s own words come rushing back to him. 

_ Lemarque is a light in the darkness - but his flame is soon to flicker out. And when it does, gentlemen - I say that _ we _ can be the ones to rekindle the spark. The time for revolution, I truly believe, is almost upon us - and we shall be there to meet that time when it comes. _

He had spoken those words, right here in this tavern, the night before he first met Alfred. Less than a week ago - and yet, it already felt like a lifetime. He had announced that night that the time for revolution was almost upon them. But now, it seems that there is no more ‘almost.’ There can be no doubt; the time is now, the day is here. 

There is another moment of shivering silence, and then a collective cry rises up from the students around the room, startling Edward out of his reverie. 

“_Vive la revolution! Vive la revolution!” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, we are now heading into Act Two of Les Mis... I'm extremely excited to show you the rest of this story, but all I can say is proceed with caution from hereon in....and don't say I didn't warn you...
> 
> As ever, comments and kudos make my day - I'm LOVING writing this fic, and it makes me so happy to hear that people are enjoying reading it as well! <3 <3 xxx


	9. Be Strong and Stand With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> General Lemarque is dead and Edward, Alfred and George must face the fact that the revolution is upon them.
> 
> Meanwhile, Florence delivers the news to Henry and Mina, prompting some dramatic reactions.

It is a surreal moment; as the cries of _ ‘Vive la revolution!’ _echo around the tavern, Alfred feels almost as though he has walked into a dream. He can scarcely believe that the time for fighting is finally upon them, after all the hours that the students have spent planning and waiting for it. 

For a moment, as he and Edward stare at each other in shock, Alfred feels a lurch of fear in his stomach - what on earth has he gotten himself into? Is he _ really _ready for this?

There is a flurry of panic and excitement spreading around the room, the students hurrying around aimlessly, everywhere people raising their voices over each other. 

Glancing at Edward again, who is still frozen on the spot and seems rather dazed, Alfred subtly reaches across, taking his hand and gently squeezing it, hardly daring to believe that he really can do this now. Edward looks at him, and Alfred gives him a tiny nod, wondering as he does so how he has reached a point where _ he _is offering encouragement to Edward Drummond. 

At Alfred’s nod, Edward takes a deep breath, and his face settles into a familiar expression of resolve and determination. All of a sudden, Alfred’s doubts seem to vanish on the spot. Yes. As long as Edward is at his side, he _ is _ready for this. 

Edward pulls out a nearby stool and stands up on it, speaking in a loud, clear voice that effortlessly commands attention, despite the general hubbub in the tavern. 

“My friends,” Edward calls, and silence falls immediately as all heads turn towards him. “It appears that the time to stand up has finally come upon us.” 

He glances briefly at Alfred again, seeming to draw more courage and certainty from the sight of Alfred’s small smile. He takes another deep breath and continues. 

“To any of you who still want to fight alongside me” - an answering cheer echoes around the room at these words, and Alfred feels pride swelling in his chest - “please know that each and every one of you is incredible and brave. I cannot begin to express how much I appreciate you - _ all _of you.”

Edward’s gaze flickers over to Alfred again momentarily before he looks back at the others and Alfred feels his heart skip a beat. 

“I promise you,” Edward continues, addressing the crowd at large again, “from this day, you will all go down in history as liberating heroes.” 

Another cheer runs around the room. 

Beaming to himself, his cheeks flushed with his excitement and making him look somehow more beautiful than ever before, Edward climbs down from the stool again. 

“Ernest,” he calls, “could you fetch some guns from the back room?” 

Ernest nods, setting off immediately to obey. 

“Albert, could you double check our gunpowder stores, please?”

Albert nods, too, following after his brother. 

“And Francatelli, I’ll need you to take a group of men with you out into the streets. Take some of the things we’ve collected here so we can get to work building the barricade, but collect whatever you can out on the streets as well - chairs, broken furniture, barrels, tables, anything sturdy.” 

“And where are we building it, Drummond? Where shall we meet you?” Francatelli calls back. 

“I believe we decided on the Rue de Villette,” Edward responds. Francatelli nods and immediately sets about gathering men. 

There is another flurry of activity around the tavern, though this time it is much more organised and purposeful than before, as the students set about following Edward’s instructions. 

Edward looks as though he is about to set off around the room, encouraging people and giving more instructions, Florence still hovering at his side. But Alfred reaches out to touch his arm gently, and Edward pauses, turning to him. 

“And what about me?” he asks quietly. “You haven’t yet given _ me _any instructions, Edward.”

Edward just stares at him for a moment, a small, surprised grin playing on his lips. 

“I seem to recall you telling me that you don’t believe in any of this, Alfred,” he teases. 

Alfred shrugs slightly, not breaking eye contact with Edward for a second. 

“I believe in _ you _,” he answers quietly. 

For a split second, Edward just stares back at him, as though he is too overwhelmed to speak. Then, his entire face lights up in a huge, boyish, irresistible smile, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. Alfred thinks he could watch Edward smiling like that forever. 

Without even seeming to consciously think about it, Edward brings a hand up to Alfred’s face, cupping his cheek in his hand gently. Alfred immediately feels his heart skip a beat in his chest. 

“And I believe in you, too, Alfred,” he whispers. “Always have. Always will.”

Alfred can’t stop himself from smiling softly, closing his eyes for a moment and leaning into Edward’s touch. He can’t remember _ ever _feeling this way, not even when Alexandre was alive. 

The precious moment is interrupted by an awkward and pointed cough beside them. Alfred opens his eyes and draws back from Edward slightly guiltily, having almost entirely forgotten George’s presence. 

“I’m in too, Drummond - if that wasn’t obvious already,” he says with certainty. “I did promise I would fight alongside you, whether Alfred came back or not - and I’m a man of my word.”

George holds out his hand. Edward blinks at him for a moment, before grinning broadly again and reaching out to shake George’s hand firmly. 

“You are _ most _welcome at our side,” he exclaims excitedly, as he wrings George’s hand. “Both of you. If you’re sure - “

“We’re sure,” Alfred says. 

And it’s true. He’s not sure he can fully explain why, not even to himself, but ever since he read Edward’s letter the night before, he has felt such a powerful sense of certainty that it’s as though somebody has lit a flame within him. He is _ burning _to stand up and fight. 

George nods in silent agreement, and Alfred can’t help but notice the look of pride on his brother’s face when he looks sideways at him. 

“Very well,” Edward responds, looking as though he could not wipe the broad grin from his face, even if he had wanted to. “George, could you please help Francatelli gather materials for the barricade?”

George nods, and goes to it at once.

“And what about me, Edward?” Alfred asks again, grinning at him and raising his eyebrow slightly as though challenging him. “Where am _ I _to go?”

Edward grins mischievously back at him, as though rising to Alfred’s challenge. 

“_You, _ Monsieur, are coming with _ me_,” he responds. 

Alfred feels his heart melt just a little as Edward reaches out to him again, twining their hands together. He stares down at their entwined hands, wondering for a moment if he is just having a cruelly wonderful dream, before Edward tugs on his hand and Alfred gladly follows his lead. He’s not even quite sure where they’re going, but he knows full well that he would follow Edward Drummond anywhere. 

Florence stands still in the centre of the tavern, alone amidst the hustle and bustle around her. She chews on her lip thoughtfully as she watches the two men leave, their hands clasped tightly together. 

* * *

As Henry paces back and forth across the drawing room, glancing towards the front door so frequently that he appears to have a twitch, Mina sits quietly in the armchair by the fireplace, twisting her hands silently in her lap and determinedly avoiding his gaze, even when she senses him glancing back at her. 

“I don’t understand,” Henry mutters as he paces. “Where the hell _ are _those two?” 

Mina doesn’t answer his question; he sounds as though he’s mostly talking to himself, anyway. 

There seems to be a knot of anxiety in her chest, so tight that she’s finding it a little difficult to breathe evenly. 

“I told them I was giving them a _ bit _of time to make any farewells that they needed to before we leave,” Henry continues muttering as he paces. “How could that possibly be taking them so long?” 

Mina stays silent, but this time Henry turns towards her indignantly, as though he is waiting for a response. 

“I mean, you and I both know that Alfred doesn’t even _ have _anybody that he would want to say goodbye to,” Henry hisses confidentially, as though afraid that Alfred might hear him, wherever he is. “I just didn’t like to point it out because I was trying to spare his feelings!”

Mina winces slightly, but still she does not respond. 

She knows full well who Alfred has gone to, and what’s more, she knows that he has absolutely no intention of leaving Paris, despite Henry’s commands. But she’s not quite sure how to break this uncomfortable news to Henry, and she really doesn’t think she should have to; Alfred _ had _ relented before he left and said that she could leave it to him to break the news to their father. It was hardly _ her _ fault that he was being so reckless. Or...perhaps it _ was _ partially her fault? After all, she had been the one who’d passed Edward’s letter on to Alfred. Perhaps she should have thought twice before doing that...but then, that letter had made Alfred happier and more confident than she had seen him in _ years. _Surely that was worth a little trouble? Surely she should be at least attempting to keep Alfred’s secret for him, if leaving Paris and taking him away from Edward Drummond meant that he would sink back into the depression and self-loathing he’d been caught in for the last five years? But then, at the same time, it hardly seems fair to Henry, who loves Alfred so much, to leave him once again in the dark, worried sick, without a clue where Alfred and George have disappeared to this time?

Mina sighs to herself slightly. Why must everything be so complicated all the time?

In the absence of a response from her, Henry sighs and goes back to his muttering - but within a matter of seconds, he is interrupted by a sudden fierce knocking at the door, making both he and Mina almost jump out of their skin. They stare at each other for a moment, bewildered. 

“Thank the lord,” Henry exclaims. “But what the devil has gotten into those two recently? Why on earth are they pounding on the door loud enough to wake the dead, at their own house…?”

But he trails off, his mouth falling open slightly, as the butler escorts their visitor into the drawing room. It wasn’t Alfred and George who were knocking so loudly and desperately. 

It was Florence. 

Mina stares at her, her heart pounding. Given everything that’s happened between the two of them recently, she should be thrilled to see Florence. But she knows that it would take a lot to convince Florence to come back to this house when she must surely have known that Henry would be home, given the way that he had spoken to her last time they met and his warning to stay away, given the way she had snuck out at dawn to avoid running into him again. Besides which, Florence looks rather pale and on edge, twisting her hands together anxiously, looking as though she’s not quite sure how to phrase what she has come to say. 

Henry glares at her, shock written across his face. 

“What the hell are _ you _doing here? I thought I told you the other night that you are not welcome in my house!”

“Papa…” Mina protests quietly. She really wishes he would learn to be a little kinder to Florence - if only he understood everything she’d been through, not to mention the lengths she’d gone to to redeem herself for hurting Alfred. 

But Florence ignores Henry completely, looking straight at Mina and speaking as though she had not heard him.

“General Lemarque is dead,” she announces without any preamble. “They’re going to fight. Now. Today. They’re building a barricade as I speak.” 

Mina stares at her, waves of shock crashing over her. Florence’s voice seems to be reaching her from very far away. Somehow, she had never actually quite believed that it would come to this. She wonders for a split second if she is simply dreaming this, all of it. 

There is a moment of shivering silence in the room before Henry speaks.

“_Who’s _building a barricade?” He speaks quietly, as though, like Mina, he does not dare to believe his ears. “Surely you don’t mean....not my boys…”

“Yes,” Florence answers bluntly. “I mean your boys.” 

“I….no….you’re mistaken,” Henry responds inarticulately, shaking his head desperately as though it will erase the words Florence has just spoken. “Why would _ my _boys suddenly decide to join that ridiculously dangerous rebellion? They both know full well how foolish and naive those students are, surely?”

“They’ve been going to those meetings for days now, Papa,” Mina says quietly. Henry stares at her, looking more stunned and horrified than ever now, and Mina forces herself to keep speaking despite the sharp twinge of guilt she feels for keeping him in the dark. “I think George only took Alfred as a way to try and entertain him - at first. But Alfred, he....he fell in love.”

Henry stares at her, his eyes widening in shock.

“My boy? In love?” he splutters. “Who has Alfred fallen in love with?”

“He’s in love with their leader, Edward Drummond,” Mina responds quietly. 

Henry darts a quick glance at Florence, clearly recognising the name from the night when she had been at their gate and Alfred had fled after her harsh words. 

“Florence gave Alfred the wrong message the other night,” Mina explains, deliberately phrasing it so that it seems like Florence made a mistake, rather than told an outright lie. Nevertheless, she sees Florence shifting uncomfortably out of the corner of her eye. “But Alfred had a chance to read Edward’s letter when he came back home last night. I believe Edward Drummond truly loves him back, Papa. That’s why Alfred has gone to him.” 

All of Henry’s anger seems suddenly to drain away as he stares at Mina. To her shock, she sees tears beginning to well in his eyes. 

“So Alfred is truly in love?” he whispers. 

Mina nods and Henry’s breath hitches in his throat. 

“But I thought...after Alexandre…”

Mina feels tears welling in her own eyes at the mention of the man Alfred had lost all those years ago, and she instinctively reaches out to grasp Henry’s hand, squeezing it gently. 

“I think that Edward Drummond is the first person to have given him hope since then, Papa,” she murmurs. “I never thought he would fall in love again, either. But he has. I think he’s even more in love this time than he was before.” 

Henry gasps slightly, struggling to compose himself, and as Mina gently and reassuringly squeezes his hand again, she can sense Florence’s discomfort at her side, and she understands how out of place Florence feels. 

“But…” Henry chokes out, “I need to protect him....I cannot lose….”

Abruptly, he stands upright and tall, as though, after all these years, he is suddenly a soldier on duty again. Without a word of explanation, he withdraws his hand from Mina’s and silently leaves the room, walking towards his bedroom. 

Left alone in the drawing room together, there is a moment of tense silence as Mina stares at Florence. 

“Are you absolutely _ sure _they’re going to fight?” Mina whispers, desperately hoping that Florence will admit she might have made some kind of mistake, or misunderstood something. 

But Florence nods tightly.

“Positive,” she responds. “I saw them, I heard them making plans. They’re heading to the Rue de Villette.” 

Mina nods slowly, trying to swallow against the fear that seems to be clogging her throat. As she looks down, she realises that her hands are shaking. 

Following her gaze, Florence seems to notice too. She hesitates for a moment, as though wondering whether Mina will allow it, before walking forwards and pulling Mina gently into her arms, rocking her, rubbing soothing circles into her back, comforting Mina just as Mina had comforted her the other day in the face of Edward’s anger. Feeling her breath hitch in her throat, Mina desperately blinks back tears, breathing in Florence’s scent, relishing in the comforting warmth of Florence’s arms around her, trying to ground herself and shut out her fear.

A moment later, Henry walks back into the room, and Mina and Florence jump apart hastily, Mina wiping a tear away from her cheek.

She stares at Henry in amazement as she fully takes him in. For the first time that she can remember, he is dressed in his old blue army uniform, a gun hanging on his belt, striding upright with a fierce and determined look on his face, despite his wooden leg. 

“I am going to fetch my sons back home,” he announces. “Mademoiselle Kerr” - he looks at Florence with more sympathy and kindness in his face than before - “I thank you for informing me of what is happening. The Rue de Villette - is that what I heard you say just now?” 

Florence nods slowly, looking as stunned as Mina feels, and Henry nods in response. He turns to Mina, his expression more determined and stern than Mina has ever seen it before. 

“As for you, Mina,” he says to her, “don’t you _ dare _move from this spot until I have returned with both of your brothers. Do you understand me?”

She wants to protest at the unfairness of this, but the look that Henry fixes her with is so fierce that it’s almost frightening. Swallowing down the urge to complain, she nods reluctantly. 

Henry gives her one small, tight, nod in response - and then, without any more words, he strides out of the room, one hand on his belt where his gun is hanging. Mina hears the front door closing firmly behind him a moment later. 

Mina stares after him, still struggling to process everything that has happened within the last half hour. Once again, she feels panic rising up in her chest and throat, constricting her breathing.

“Oh god,” she murmurs, half to Florence, half to herself. “But Papa...he isn’t strong enough to fight anymore...he hasn’t done it in years...he _ can’t _do it....” She struggles to control her breathing. “He cannot possibly save Alfred and George, all by himself…”

She feels tears springing to her eyes again, and she looks at Florence desperately.

“Florence, I cannot possibly just sit here alone, waiting to know when they’re going to come back, _ if _ they’re going to come back! How could I stand that, _ how _?” 

Florence moves closer to her again, reaching out to squeeze Mina’s hand gently and reassuringly, though Mina can see the fear in her own face. Florence chews her lip silently for a moment, evidently deep in thought.

“Your brother Alfred,” she says slowly, “he is not particularly tall or broad, is he?”

Mina frowns at her slightly, wondering what on earth she is getting at. Florence smiles slightly at her confusion.

“I think that perhaps we might both be able to fit into some of Alfred’s clothes, wouldn’t you agree, Mina?” she asks. 

Mina continues to stare at her, utterly bewildered. 

“Well...yes...I suppose so...but why in the world would we wish to wear Alfred’s clothes, Florence?” she responds.

“Come with me, Mina,” Florence says quietly.

Mina stares at her in shock.

“I...what? What are you saying, Florence?” she demands.

“You don’t seriously think _ I _could stand it either, sitting here and waiting for news, without a clue what’s going on?” Florence asks her. “You think I could just sit here quietly while Edward is in danger?”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Mina can’t help but feel her heart sink slightly when Florence mentions Edward like this. It seems that Florence notices it on her face, for she reaches out to tilt Mina’s chin up gently so that their gazes lock. 

“Please don’t misunderstand me, Mina,” she murmurs. “I no longer believe myself in love with him. I understand now that he was never mine to lose - and besides - ” Florence pauses for a moment, her cheeks flushing pink, “I believe I have been lucky enough to have found love after all. I have found it where I would never have expected to find it.” 

She moves her hand slightly, cupping Mina’s cheek and stroking a thumb gently across her cheekbone, and despite her fear, Mina cannot help but smile at her softly. 

“But despite that, Mina, you have to understand that Edward Drummond has still protected me, and cared about me. He stood as my friend and my hero, when I had nobody else in the world. And I cannot just sit here while he goes to fight, any more than _ you _can sit here while your brothers fight.”

Mina stares at her, wondering if she’s understanding Florence right. The moment feels utterly surreal. 

“So...you’re saying…”

“Come with me,” Florence repeats, more urgently this time. “If we go dressed as we are now, in these dresses and petticoats, then the men would tell us to leave for our own safety as soon as they saw us. But perhaps, if we are able to pass as young men, wearing your brother’s clothes, we will be able to blend in, and they will let us stay.” 

Mina gazes at Florence, still not quite certain if this is really happening. 

“But...Papa says that it’s too dangerous, Florence....”

“It _ is _dangerous,” Florence responds firmly, “there can be no doubt about that, Mina. But your brothers are facing that danger. Edward is facing that danger. They’re trying to build a better world. And if they can do it, Mina...well, why can’t we?”

There is a silence as Mina gazes at Florence’s utterly determined face. There is no hint of uncertainty there - and something about Florence’s expression seems to make a sudden flame leap in Mina’s chest, a sudden bright flare of courage. She can’t just sit here quietly obeying Henry’s orders forever. She wants to be brave and strong, too. 

With a deep breath, Mina nods, reaching out to entwine her fingers with Florence’s, squeezing her hand gently. 

“Yes,” she says simply. “I will go with you, Florence.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is still reading this story! As ever, comments and kudos make my day - it makes me so happy to hear that anyone is enjoying this story as much as I'm enjoying writing it! <3 <3 xxx


	10. The First Of Us To Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Florence and Mina sneak off to the barricade in their disguises, but Mina soon finds herself out of her depth when she and Florence are separated.
> 
> Meanwhile, on the other side of the barricade, Edward and Alfred find that not everything is going to plan...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright everyone, buckle in....and...look, I have warned you...

As she and Florence creep cautiously and silently through the steadily darkening alleyways of Paris, Mina cannot help but feel strangely dreamlike, as though she has somehow fallen into some alternate world. The shadows are lengthening on the walls, twisting and flickering in the light of passing torches and lanterns, and there seems to be a tense, ominous feeling hanging in the air, as though the entire city of Paris is holding its breath. 

Mina still can’t quite believe that she agreed to this plan, that she and Florence are wandering around narrow, winding side streets, dressed in spare clothes of Alfred’s with their hair tucked up under caps and their chests tightly bound, looking for this barricade so that they can join Alfred, George, Edward, and now apparently Henry as well. 

Perhaps she really has just gone mad, Mina thinks to herself, fighting the urge to laugh in hysterical fear as her heart thumps relentlessly and she tries to keep her breathing even. But then, she reasons, her eyes fixed on Florence walking ahead of her, she could hardly have just sat quietly at home while Florence ran off to the barricade without her. 

Leading the way confidently and purposefully, Florence doesn’t seem nearly as anxious or afraid as Mina is feeling. But then, Mina reflects, while she herself has been privileged enough to live her life in light, airy rooms since Henry rescued her, never venturing out into the streets after sunset, Florence has had no choice but to live her life either in damp, dark, confined spaces, or wandering the streets of the city at all hours of the night. Florence has seen and experienced far more than she should have had to, far more than Mina even wants to think about, and as a result she knows the streets of Paris like the back of her hand, and she is rather hard to scare. That’s why Mina is blindly following her lead. 

Despite this, though, Mina can’t help but notice that the streets they’re walking through seem to be strangely quiet so far, with no sign of a barricade or any struggle. The anxiety is building steadily in her chest, so that she can’t help but voice the question in her mind. 

“Florence? Are you  _ sure  _ we’re going the right way?” she whispers. 

Florence nods tightly without turning around. 

“I heard Edward giving instructions to the others,” she murmured quietly. “They’re building the barricade in the Rue de Villette. We should reach them any moment now.” 

And sure enough, Mina hears a rumble of male voices drifting towards them scarcely a moment later, and as they turn the corner she sees a huge, hulking construction, uneven and makeshift, yet utterly imposing, an eerie sight as it looms into view in the twilight. 

The barricade is taller and wider than she would ever have imagined it to be; constructed from various wooden tables and chairs and a myriad of miscellaneous objects such as barrels, spinning wheels, ladders, wheelbarrows and even coffins. It is evident that the revolutionaries have not wasted any time. 

As they edge closer to the barricade, Mina still gaping at the sight before her eyes, she hears men shouting to each other across it, though none of the voices are ones she recognises, and lamplight flickers across the barricade, casting strangely twisted shadows on the ground. 

A moment later, she jumps as she hears deep male voices closer at hand, and the clomping sound of many pairs of boots passing by. 

Instinctively, it seems, Florence turns around and pushes Mina, rather roughly, behind a nearby pillar, moving swiftly to stand next to her in its shadow. Mina opens her mouth, but Florence silently puts a warning finger to her lips. 

Glancing around Florence, Mina properly takes in the sight of the seemingly endless parade of men marching towards the barricade. Every one of them is in a blue uniform with a three-cornered hat, carrying a gun on their belt, much like the ensemble that Henry was wearing when he left the house to find Alfred and George. The National Guard. 

Mina feels her mouth go dry, her heartbeat racing even faster than before. The National Guard of Paris are marching against the barricade before her very eyes. Alfred, George and Edward are about to try and fight against the forces of His Majesty, Louis-Phillippe. This is really happening. Right now. 

Evidently noticing that Mina’s breathing is beginning to creep towards hyperventilation, Florence turns to her with compassion in her eyes. 

“Are you alright?” Florence whispers. 

Mina isn’t quite sure how to answer that question at the moment, so she simply nods.

“I’m fine,” she mutters, hearing her own voice shaking as she says it. 

It’s very obviously a lie, and Mina can tell by the look on Florence’s face that she knows it. Florence doesn’t bother to contradict her, though. Instead, she offers Mina a small smile, and tentatively reaches out to her, gently cupping Mina’s face in her hands. She presses a soft, soothing kiss against Mina’s forehead and rests her own forehead against Mina’s for a moment. 

Mina closes her eyes briefly, relishing in this tiny, fragile moment of peace and comfort in the middle of this maelstrom of fear and uncertainty. 

The moment is shattered by the sound of a man shouting - Mina opens her eyes and the two of them look round to see that a man from the National Guard is shouting a command towards the barricade. A moment later, Mina feels a jolt in her stomach as a very familiar voice shouts defiantly back from behind the barricade. 

Edward’s voice. 

Florence immediately tenses up, her eyes widening, her face set in determination. Mina can tell that in this moment, all Florence is thinking of is the possibility that Edward might be in danger. She is blind to everything and everyone else. 

“Edward,” she mutters - and before Mina can stop her, before she can even fully process what is happening, Florence ducks out from behind the shadow of the pillar and begins to run full tilt towards the barricade, weaving around the soldiers and making use of the spots of shadow so skillfully that, focused on the barricade itself, they don’t even notice her.

“Florence!” Mina tries to call after her - but her heart seems to have lodged in her throat, and her mouth is so dry with fear and panic that she can scarcely seem to make a sound. 

Her mind whirling, she can’t think what she should do - all she can do is follow her overwhelming instinct to follow Florence towards the barricade. 

But Florence, having sprinted off in full tilt, already has a huge head start on her, and in her terror, Mina’s legs seem suddenly to have filled with lead. She may be wearing Alfred’s clothes instead of the weighty silken skirt and petticoat that she is used to, but the fact remains that her entire body seems to have become completely clumsy and uncoordinated in her panic, and she is not nearly as used to physical activity and running as Florence is at the best of times. Gasping and panting, trying her hardest to keep Florence in sight, Mina suddenly feels herself slipping in the loose mud beneath her feet, and before she knows it, she is sprawling hard and painfully on the ground. 

Spitting mud out of her mouth in disgust, Mina looks up, desperately searching for Florence - but Florence is no longer in sight. Cursing and sternly telling herself that crying isn’t going to solve anything, Mina gets up stiffly, gingerly, trying not to put too much weight on her throbbing right foot. She exhales slowly, trying to calm herself down so she can think of a plan - but a moment later, her heart seems to stop as a large hand closes tightly on her upper arm, pulling her roughly around. 

The broad, red-faced and unfamiliar man who has her arm in a firm grip is dressed in a blue uniform with a gun hanging from his belt. A soldier of the National Guard, then. 

“And who might you be, lad?” he sneers. “Another damned student, I presume?” 

Remembering that she is supposed to be passing for a young man, Mina ducks her head and keeps silent, her heart pounding so hard in terror that it seems to be almost bursting through her chest.

The man grabs her chin roughly and forces it up so he can inspect her face. Terrified and humiliated, Mina fights the urge to spit at him. 

“Why, you don’t even have the beginnings of a beard yet, boy,” he mutters, sounding rather taken aback. “Good god, you can’t be a day older than seventeen, I’d wager.”

He releases her face, though he still keeps his painful grip on her upper arm. 

“Trying to join your foolish brothers on the barricade, were you, boy?” he asks, grinning maliciously. “Thought you could start a republic, did you? Thought you could win against us?”

She stays silent, her eyes fixed on the ground, terrified to give herself away with her voice. 

“Well, you’ve got another think coming, boy,” the man announces, his grin growing wider. “You’re going to come with me now.” 

And before Mina knows it, he is steering her roughly away from the barricade - away from Florence. 

Her heart pounding relentlessly, her mind a blur of panic, Mina desperately tries to think what she should do. She has absolutely no idea where this man is taking her, or what he’s planning to do with her. Fear rises up in her stomach so sharply that for a moment, Mina worries that she is going to be sick. 

_ What would Florence do?  _ If Florence was in a situation like this, no doubt she would lash out at the soldier in some way, kick him or scratch him and then make her escape while he was distracted. But Florence has lived her life on the streets, she’s used to having to defend herself. Mina doesn’t trust her own fighting skills - and this man is carrying a gun, while she is totally unarmed. What if she hits him in an attempt to free herself, but she only succeeds in angering him more? Perhaps it’s better if she goes quietly, perhaps the man will leave her alone if he can see that she is causing no trouble?

Before she has come to any decision, Mina’s terrified reverie is interrupted by the sound of another voice - a very familiar voice this time. 

“Lieutenant? May I ask what is going on here?”

An overwhelming, giddy sense of relief rushes through her from head to toe at the sound of that voice. She doesn’t need to look up to know that Henry is standing in front of her. 

“Captain!” the soldier says hastily, jumping to a respectful salute. 

Evidently, Henry’s old captain’s uniform still carries weight amongst the National Guard, even though his face is presumably unfamiliar to the other soldiers. 

“I caught this boy trying to run towards the barricade, Monsieur. Made a bit of a hash of it, though - fell flat on his face, he did. No doubt he was trying to join his idiotic friends on the barricade and become a traitor to king and country. I was just taking him back to headquarters, Monsieur; I thought perhaps he might be a useful source of information.” 

Mina glances up from underneath her cap slightly, just enough to meet Henry’s eyes. 

An expression of pure shock crosses Henry’s face as he recognises his adopted daughter. He inhales sharply, hastily covering the sound with a cough as the soldier looks at him strangely. 

“Give this boy to me, Lieutenant,” he orders, clearly thinking fast. “I’ll take him to headquarters, I can deal with him there. You can go back to your station at the barricade.” 

The soldier frowns slightly, evidently confused by this command. Mina holds her breath, terrified that he might refuse, and she can practically feel Henry holding his breath with her. 

She feels sheer relief flooding through her again when the man submits, evidently feeling that disobeying a command from a superior would be more trouble than it was worth. 

“As you wish, Captain,” the man says grudgingly. 

He releases Mina’s arm, pushing her roughly towards Henry, who grasps her arm gently but firmly. Mina keeps her gaze firmly on the ground, not daring to look up at her Papa again in case she gives either of them away. 

The soldier gives Henry another salute, and Henry nods at him in return before turning away, steering Mina with him. She presumes that he is taking her to the soldiers’ headquarters; she does not bother asking, but willingly lets him lead her. She’s fully aware that he will be furious with her for disobeying him, but at the moment she considers that a rather minor concern; now that she’s with Henry, her heart rate has finally slowed down, and she feels safer than she has done for hours. 

Without speaking, he leads her into a small cottage at the side of the Rue de Villette. The furniture is neat but rudimentary; in the centre of the main room, there is a small wooden table surrounded by an assortment of chairs. An assortment of camping beds lies at one end of the room, and there are three stretcher beds lying on the floor at the other end, presumably in case of wounded soldiers. An open chest is tucked in the corner; a quick glance towards it shows Mina that it is full of spare guns. There is a large woven sack lying in the chest as well; though she isn’t close enough to check, Mina assumes it’s full of spare bullets. There are only three soldiers in the room, sitting at the table with their feet up, gambling with a deck of cards. Presumably, most of their companions are out by the barricade. 

The soldiers at the table turn around as Henry and Mina enter, scrambling hastily to their feet to salute as they recognise that Henry is wearing a captain’s uniform, possibly worried that he’s going to punish them for idleness or gambling. But Henry ignores them completely, steering Mina past them before they can ask any inconvenient or uncomfortable questions. 

Mina willingly lets him steer her into a tiny room off the main room where the soldiers are congregated. 

There are three more basic camp beds in this room; wordlessly, Henry pushes Mina down onto the nearest one. Closing the door firmly behind him to ensure they’re not overheard, he turns back to Mina, leaning forwards and pulling her cap sharply off so that her long blonde hair falls down her back. 

“So,” he says, fury written across his face. “Am I to take it that  _ none  _ of my children listen to a single word I say any more?”

Mina winces, but she looks straight back at him defiantly, refusing to let him guilt her. 

“What did you expect, Papa?” she asks. “There was no way that I could have just stayed home, on my own, waiting and wondering when you would return with George and Alfred. I could not have borne it.  _ You  _ would never have borne it in my position, and you know it.” 

The anger in his face is replaced with weariness. He does not retort, which gives Mina a vague sense of satisfaction, feeling that she must have proved her point adequately. He rubs a hand across his face. 

“This,” he gestures at the male clothes Mina is wearing, “was  _ her  _ idea, wasn’t it? Florence Kerr’s?” 

Mina’s breath hitches slightly in her throat as she remembers Florence sprinting towards the barricade, the way she had vanished from sight by the time Mina had picked herself up off the ground. She nods slowly, fear constricting her chest again. 

“So?” Henry demands. “Where is she, then?”   
“I don’t know, Papa,” Mina whispers, feeling her throat burn as her eyes fill with tears. “We were separated. She ran away from me, towards the barricade. She was looking for Edward Drummond.”

Henry scowls at this, and Mina can tell he is about to tell her in no uncertain terms what he thinks of Florence leaving her alone in such danger. But, as Mina reaches up impatiently to scrub at her eyes, his face softens slightly, and he seems to understand that such words would not be helpful at this point. 

Instead, he simply closes his mouth and nods grimly, a muscle tensing in his jaw. As Mina breathes deeply, struggling to calm herself, he holds her cap silently out to her. 

Mina stares at him, realising that he wants her to put her disguise back on. She obeys, quickly tucking her long hair up under the cap again. Henry reaches out, grasping her hand and squeezing it gently. 

“I promise,” he murmurs quietly, his voice much gentler now, “I will be back, and I will do my best to keep bringing you news from outside. But  _ please _ , Mina, for your brothers’ sake if not for mine - I  _ need  _ you to actually stay here until I come back to fetch you. Can you promise to do that for me?  _ Please? _ ” 

Part of her would be glad to sit here, where it is safe, staying under Henry’s protection until the battle is over. But another part of her cries out at the injustice of having to stay here on the sidelines while the people she loves are in danger. She opens her mouth - but when she looks at Henry and sees the love and the fear in his eyes, she hesitates and closes her mouth again. Reluctantly, she nods. Henry sighs in relief. 

“Keep that cap on,” he says firmly. “And don’t speak to any of the soldiers. I will make sure that they all leave you alone until I return.” 

Mina nods silently again. There is a moment of silence as Henry straightens up and turns towards the door - but he hesitates. Pausing for a moment to listen and confirm that the soldiers in the other room are still occupied and not about to check on them, he turns back to Mina and leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. 

“I love you, my daughter,” he murmurs. “And...I am very proud of you.”

Mina smiles up at him, feeling fresh tears welling in her eyes. 

“I love you too, Papa,” she says quietly, emotion burning in her throat. 

Henry smiles back at her gently, squeezing her hand once again, before turning around, closing the door quietly behind him as he leaves. Back to the barricade. 

* * *

  
  


“Shit,” Edward curses under his breath. 

Immediately, he glances around nervously, evidently checking that the others have not noticed his panic. Alfred notices, of course. But then, he notices everything about Edward.

“Edward? What is it?” he murmurs quietly. 

Edward looks up at him, his eyes wide with panic. 

“We need more bullets,” he responds. “We’re running dangerously low already.”

Alfred inhales sharply, but he stops himself quickly - Edward looks quite terrified enough already. 

“I miscalculated,” Edward tells him, his voice quivering, looking as though he is on the brink of tears. “This is  _ my  _ fault, Alfred, and now…”

“Ssh,” Alfred says quietly and reassuringly, cutting Edward off, as his voice had been rising in panic with every word and would soon have been plainly audible to everyone else. With a quick glance around to check that the others are occupied and not watching them too closely, he moves forward, pressing a quick kiss against Edward’s forehead. 

“We can fix this,” he tells him firmly. 

Edward looks at him, his eyes still wide and fearful.

“We can?”

Alfred nods, thinking fast.  _ There’s always a way.  _

“I’m sure they must have some bullets that we can borrow on the other side of this barricade.” 

Edward does not look particularly reassured by this; in fact, he looks even more terrified than before. 

“We can’t take them  _ now _ , Alfred! It’s much too dangerous! We’ll have to wait until the guards have gone to sleep -”

“And if they decide to shoot us first, while we run out of bullets with which to defend ourselves?” Alfred asks pointedly. 

Edward closes his mouth, recognising Alfred’s point. He nods reluctantly, his intelligent dark eyes full of fear. 

“I can be quick, and sneaky,” Alfred says firmly, with more confidence than he truly feels. “I will be back soon, Edward. I promise.” 

Exhaling slowly to try and slow his racing heart, he turns around, making to climb quietly over the top of the barricade towards the soldiers. Before he can move, Edward reaches out quickly, grasping his arm gently, holding him back. Alfred looks down to see that the hand on his arm is shaking. He turns back to look at Edward, raising an eyebrow silently. 

“Alfred, please,” Edward whispers urgently. “Please...no...don’t do this…”

Alfred feels warmth flooding through him at the pure fear and _love _shining in Edward’s dark eyes. It seems that, for once, it is Alfred’s turn to be strong for _him_. Instinctively, he reaches out to cup Edward’s cheek in his hand, stroking a thumb gently across his cheekbone. 

“You believe in me, remember, Edward?” he murmurs. 

He feels another spark of bright joy in his chest as he says the words; he still can’t quite believe that he is so lucky. 

Edward swallows and nods. Alfred can see tears welling in his eyes. Reluctantly, he releases Alfred’s arm. With another quick glance around to check that they are unobserved, he leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to Alfred’s forehead this time. Alfred’s eyes flutter shut for a brief moment, relishing in the feeling of Edward’s warm lips against his skin. 

“Hurry back,” Edward whispers against his forehead.

“I will. I promise,” Alfred whispers back. 

Despite his reassurances to Edward, Alfred’s heart is pounding so loudly as he climbs carefully down over the barricade that he’s half-afraid the sound will give him away. He darts quickly into the shadow of a pillar as he reaches the ground on the other side of the barricade, glancing around, tensing from head to toe. 

He exhales silently in relief - there are a few soldiers here and there pointing their guns up at the top of the barricade, searching for movement, but they are looking in the wrong direction. The students having gone quiet, most of the soldiers are huddled together, talking to each other quietly during this lull in the action. Nobody appears to have noticed him. 

Alfred darts stealthily and silently between the shadows, picking up bullets from abandoned ammunition sacks here and there and carefully slipping them into his satchel bag, holding his breath all the while. He even finds some soldiers nodding off on the ground, and a few who are lolling in a drunken stupor - no doubt they will be punished later. He manages to silently pick up their abandoned guns and take the bullets out, slipping them into his satchel and grinning at the thought of their shock when they attempt to fire later and discover that they have no ammunition. 

Alfred exhales slowly and looks around.  _ Still  _ nobody seems to have noticed him - he can hardly believe his luck. Grinning to himself and undeniably feeling a little smug, he begins to make his way back towards the barricade, thinking of the look of pride on Edward’s face when he shows him his satchel full of invaluable stolen ammunition. 

“ _ Freeze!”  _ calls an unfamiliar voice, alarmingly close to him. Alfred almost jumps out of his skin. His heart thundering in fear again, he does not dare to look back at the soldier who shouted at him. Rather than putting his hands up and obeying the command, he instinctively begins to sprint back towards the barricade. His mind is a whirl of panic and he can’t seem to think clearly; all he knows is that he needs to get back to Edward. 

A terrifyingly loud gunshot fires out. Alfred feels as though his heart has stopped, and he freezes, waiting to feel the inevitable burning pain and the warm wetness of blood as the bullet tears through his flesh. 

But there is no pain, no blood. Hardly daring to believe it, Alfred realises that the bullet has not touched him at all. 

For a split second, dazed, he wonders how the soldier was incompetent enough to miss him completely. But a moment later, his blood runs cold as he hears a low cry of agony. 

Turning around, he sees what appears to be a young man, lying facedown on the ground behind him. 

The man isn’t wearing an army uniform, though - it’s not a soldier. Another revolutionary, then. From out of nowhere, another student seems to have recklessly leapt in front of the soldier’s bullet, taking it straight in the chest and saving Alfred’s life - doubtless at the cost of his own. 

Oh god, not  _ Edward _ ? Alfred staggers slightly as he edges back towards the young man on the ground, feeling that he might pass out at the very thought. But no, he realises, his brain finally catching up to his heart, it  _ can’t _ be Edward; Edward is wearing completely different clothes to this youth, and he’s completely the wrong build. Besides, Edward is still on the other side of the barricade.  _ All  _ of the revolutionaries are on the other side of the barricade at the moment, as far as he knows. 

“Hold your fire!” another soldiers shouts at the man who shot, but Alfred scarcely processes this. Terrified, he edges closer towards his mysterious saviour, part of him wanting to run away, back towards the barricade and Edward, so that he need never look at this young man’s face and carry the weight of knowing exactly who it is that has sacrificed themself for his sake.

Gently, tentatively, trying not to cause any more damage - though God knows that seems rather futile now - Alfred turns the young man over with heavily shaking hands, flinching violently as he sees the vivid scarlet blood drenching his shirt.

As he catches sight of the young man’s face, Alfred gasps in horror, feeling the blood draining from his face. 

The young man who had leapt in front of a bullet to save his life, who is now lying there on the ground struggling for breath, trembling and soaked in blood, isn’t a young man at all. 

It’s Florence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please don't throw things at me! XD
> 
> As always, comments and kudos make my day <3 <3 xx


	11. The Lonely Barricade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Florence's fate sinks in, Edward and Alfred realise that they must face the reality of fighting in the revolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, but...I did warn you. 
> 
> Tissue box recommended.

Clutching Florence in his arms, watching in horror as the blood blossoms across her chest, soaking through her clothes and staining his own hands, Alfred feels for a moment as though he is falling through the earth. He can scarcely believe this is actually happening - surely this is just a nightmare?

She stirs slightly in his arms, and her eyelids flutter as she looks up at him. It seems she is too weak to open her eyes fully. 

“Florence….what the _ hell _ ,” Alfred gasps, his hands shaking violently as he struggles to support her head, clutching at her shirt, trying to find some way to staunch the flow of blood. “What are you...what are you even _ doing _here?”

“Was looking for Edward,” Florence mumbles, her voice alarmingly faint. “Alfred...I’m sorry…”

“For god’s sake, hold your fire!” Alfred shouts as a soldier nearby trains his gun on them both. He can hear his own voice shaking uncontrollably. “This woman has already been gravely injured, the last thing she needs is another bullet! Can’t you see that she needs _ help _?” 

As he glares fiercely at the soldier, his voice cracks with the desperate effort to restrain his fear. The soldier hesitates, looking a little taken aback by the look on Alfred’s face. Seeming to take pity on him, he nods, jaw clenched, and reluctantly lowers his gun. 

“Where’s Edward?” Florence asks, her voice growing fainter still, clearly struggling to speak. “Please...I want to see him…”

“I’ll...I’ll get him,” Alfred tells her, his voice still shaking even as he attempts to sound reassuring. He turns back to the soldier who lowered his gun. 

“Please...don’t shoot at him, he’s….he’s her family. We just...we just need to get her indoors, that’s all…”

The soldier nods tightly again and turns his face away - whether to give them some privacy or to hide his own emotion, Alfred isn’t sure. 

“_ Edward _ ! _ ” _Alfred calls loudly, trying his best to sound calm for his sake, and for Florence’s. 

“Alfred?” Edward shouts back in response, voice sharp with fear. “What’s happened? Are you alright?”

“I’m...I’m fine,” he answers. “But...but you need to come here, Edward...they won’t shoot...._ please _…” 

Alfred’s voice cracks again despite his effort to remain calm. Scarcely a moment later, he sees Edward scrambling over the top of the barricade, hurrying towards the sound of Alfred’s voice as fast as he can. 

“Alfred...what…?”

As soon as his eyes fall on Florence, cradled in Alfred’s arms, Edward’s face goes completely ashen, so much so that Alfred worries for a moment that he is going to pass out. 

“No....no….” Edward whispers, as though he can will her wound to disappear. He falls to his knees beside the two of them, reaching out to grasp Florence’s hand in his. 

“Florence…” he whispers, staring at her as though he does not believe the evidence of his own eyes.

“Edward,” she murmurs quietly, with a tiny smile. 

“I...how...why...what are you even _ doing _here?” 

“Was looking for you,” she whispers in response. It sounds as though every word is costing her an immense effort. “Wanted to help. And I wanted...to say sorry. To both of you. I’m...I’m sorry I lied to you, Alfred…”

“For god’s sake, Florence, that hardly matters _ now _!” Alfred exclaims, a sound escaping him that is half laugh, half sob. He turns to Edward.

“She just jumped in front of a bullet for me, Edward. She...she saved my life.” 

Edward stares back at him, speechless, the corner of his mouth trembling as various emotions flicker across his face in quick succession; shock, relief, gratitude, pain, grief. 

Florence twists violently in Alfred’s arms; instinctively, Edward reaches out to hold her, desperate to help her in some way, despite having no idea what to do. She continues to writhe, and Edward takes his hand away, clearly terrified lest he somehow hurt her even more. When he draws his hand back, it is absolutely covered in Florence’s blood. 

“Oh god, it’s everywhere,” he whispers to Alfred, terror written across his face. 

Alfred struggles to calm Florence and hold her still, trying his best to ignore Edward’s fear. He needs to be strong now. 

“Florence,” he says quietly. “Did you come here by yourself? Is there somebody that we can take you to?”

“I came here with Mina,” she whispers, her face contorted in pain. “But I...I left her behind...I don’t know where she is…”

Alfred’s heart seems to stop for a moment at this revelation, cold fear crawling down his spine. 

“Mina?” he echoes. “She’s here too? She’s at the barricade?”

“Somewhere near...I don’t know exactly where…” Florence murmurs, her voice beginning to fade out again. She winces, gasping slightly as she struggles to keep speaking. “Your father...he’s here too, Alfred...but I don’t know...where, exactly…”

“Papa is here?” Alfred repeats, completely taken aback by this. 

Florence gives a tiny nod.

“I told him you and your brother were here…I’m sorry...he wanted to...protect you…”

Her voice trails off, her eyelids fluttering as she grimaces in agony. 

Edward looks at Alfred desperately.

“We’ve got to take her indoors, Edward,” Alfred mutters, his voice low and urgent. Edward nods helplessly. 

Alfred turns back to the soldier standing next to them. 

“Please, is there somewhere that we can take this woman, Monsieur?” he asks him. “Somewhere that no further harm will befall her?”

The soldier hesitates.

“_ Please _,” Edward says urgently. “She is no part of this, Monsieur. She just got caught in the crossfire. She is an innocent.” 

The soldier chews on his lip, considering them, before nodding tightly. 

“I’ll take you to our headquarters.”

The two of them lift Florence slowly and carefully, as though she is made of the most fragile and delicate glass. The soldier beckons them, and they follow him slowly. His heart pounding painfully, Alfred focuses his entire body and mind on helping Edward carry Florence, trying his hardest not to jostle her painfully. The weight of her, still reassuringly warm, seems to be the only thing grounding him right now; Alfred feels as though, if he were to let go of her or drop her, he might simply fall off the edge of the world. 

He does not really register their surroundings at all, following the soldier blindly until he leads them into a small cottage just off the Rue de Villette. The place is empty for the moment, save for them and the lone soldier showing them the way. 

“You can put her down there, in the spare room,” he grunts, opening a door at the side of the main room for them. “I’ll let you...do what you need to do.” 

He looks distinctly uncomfortable, evidently believing that there is nothing left he can do for them except let them grieve for Florence in private. Alfred only wishes he could prove the man wrong. He nods at him as they carry Florence past him into the tiny room, his throat clogged with fear. 

As soon as they enter the room, Alfred hears a very familiar voice crying out in shock and fear. He feels mingled relief and pity rushing through him as he recognises Mina, her eyes wide with shock, her face pale as snow, dressed in what looks like his own clothes, much like Florence. 

Mina attempts to stifle her cry just as Alfred tries to cover the gasp he had just given with a hasty cough, both of them fearful of arousing the soldier’s suspicion. He backs out of the room wordlessly, closing the door quietly as Mina hurries forwards to help them carry Florence.

“Mina,” Alfred hisses. “What the _ hell _are you doing here?”

“I got caught by one of the soldiers when Florence and I were separated, but I ran into Papa and he intervened,” Mina whispers in response. “He brought me here, he told me I had to stay here, keep quiet and keep wearing this disguise until he brought you and George back.” Her eyes don’t leave Florence for a second as she speaks. Together, the three of them lower her onto a stark camp bed, as gently as possible. Even this small movement turns Florence paler still, her cheekbones standing out sharply. 

“What happened?” Mina whispers, her gaze still fixed on the blood blossoming over Florence’s chest, her eyes swimming with tears. 

“She...she jumped in front of a bullet that was meant for me,” Alfred says hoarsely. He swallows painfully, feeling as though something sharp has lodged in his throat. “She saved my life, Mina.” 

Mina looks again at the blood soaking through Florence’s clothing, pain and terror written across her face, before looking desperately up at Alfred.

“But she...can we….there must be _ something _…”

As Edward shakily sits down in a chair next to the camp bed Florence is lying on, Alfred shakes his head silently at Mina behind his back, feeling his heart wrench with pity for them, tears welling in his own eyes. He sees Mina swallow and nod, her hands shaking. 

She sits down next to Edward at the side of Florence’s camp bed, reaching out to hold her hand, stroking her thumb across the back of it. Edward follows suit, squeezing Florence’s other hand gently.

“I’m sorry...I’m sorry I left you behind,” Florence gasps out, looking at Mina pleadingly.

“Ssh,” Mina says soothingly. She moves to sit carefully and tentatively next to Florence on the bed, wrapping her arms around her gently, one hand stroking her hair. “Don’t worry about that now.” Alfred can hear that her voice is choked with tears. 

“And...Alfred…” 

“Yes?” Alfred murmurs, moving closer to the bed. 

“I’m...I’m sorry I lied to you. I...I didn’t want to lose Edward, you see.” Florence’s voice is fading out more with every word; it’s a struggle for Alfred to hear her. 

Alfred glances quickly at Edward - he looks rather stunned, as though the idea of Florence having such feelings for him had never even occurred to him.

“Please, Florence, don’t worry about that now,” Alfred murmurs, turning back to her. “I think you’ve rather made up for any wrongs you ever did to me tonight. I owe you my life.” 

“I know now that he was never mine to lose. He’s yours now, Alfred,” she whispers, with the ghost of a smile. “Will you...will you promise to take care of him? For me?”  
Alfred swallows, grief and fear sharp in his throat. He doesn’t trust himself to speak without crying, and he knows that he has to try to be strong for the others - so he simply nods. 

“The pain...the pain will stop soon, Florence,” Edward whispers. His voice, too, is choked with tears, as he attempts to smile at her reassuringly. “I promise.” 

Alfred moves closer to him, laying a gentle hand on him in an attempt to soothe him, stroking his thumb softly across the nape of Edward’s neck, feeling him tremble. 

“But I don’t feel any pain, Edward,” Florence answers, sounding surprised. Although they are all huddled close to her, her voice sounds as though it is coming from a long way away. “It’s only raining a little. The rain can’t hurt me.”

Alfred shares an uneasy glance with Edward and Mina. Florence is evidently slipping away from reality. Wordlessly, the three of them silently agree not to tell her that there is no rain at all. 

“No. Of course it can’t hurt you,” Edward murmurs, his voice cracked with unshed tears. “You’re too fierce, Florence.” He leans in towards her with a small smile, kissing her on the top of her head. 

Florence gives a long, drawn-out sigh as Edward presses his lips to the top of her head, as though she is releasing a great burden. She settles herself further back into Mina’s arms, which tighten around her. 

“I think I might rest now,” she murmurs. 

They all nod, Alfred feeling his throat tightening.

“Mina?” Florence asks. Her voice is so faint now that it’s barely there at all. 

“Yes, Florence?” Mina whispers. Even in the dim light, Alfred can see the tears streaming down her face. She looks as though she wouldn’t be able to tear her gaze away from Florence’s face even if she tried; Alfred feels somewhat uncomfortable, as though he and Edward are intruding.

“I think I was a bit stupid. I thought that I was in love with Edward, you see. But you know what?”

“What?” Mina whispers.

The ghost of a smile flickers across Florence’s face again, as she expends the last bit of strength left in her body, trying to squeeze Mina’s hand.

“I think that...actually...I was a little bit in love with _ you _.”

And with those words, Florence’s eyelids flutter closed. Her face turns utterly calm and serene, and her body goes completely still in Mina’s arms. 

“Florence?” Mina whispers. “Florence?”

She shakes her desperately as though trying to wake her from sleep, as though unwilling to believe the evidence of her senses. When there is no response, Mina freezes, staring, as though the calamity, the realisation that Florence Kerr will never wake again, has only just dawned on her.

“No,” she whispers. “No.”

Mina doubles over, cradling Florence’s body to her chest, as though she is trying to guard her, protect her from any more harm, though she is beyond harm now.

Edward sits mutely at the bedside, staring at Florence’s body. He doesn’t even seem aware of the tears streaming down his own face. 

Feeling his heart wrenching with sorrow and pity for them both, Alfred stands up, tentatively, cautiously. As Mina cradles Florence, he wraps his arms around Mina in turn, gently rocking her, pressing a kiss to her hair. He can feel Mina’s body shaking with grief, and he feels his own heart crack in two as he desperately wishes there was something, anything, he could do to take away her pain, Edward’s pain, some way to bring Florence back for them. But there is nothing he can do, other than to keep rocking Mina gently until her sobs quieten and her breathing evens out a little. 

After a while - he honestly can’t tell whether it has been minutes or hours - Alfred speaks, his voice hoarse with tears. 

“Edward...we have to get back to the barricade.” 

“What?” Edward responds, sounding rather dazed as he finally looks away from Florence’s body. 

“The others,” Alfred reminds him gently. “They need you, Edward. We all need you.” 

Edward is silent, staring back at Florence, his face still streaked with tear tracks. 

“She gave her life to help us, Edward,” Alfred murmurs, reaching out tentatively to stroke his hand. “To help _ you. _ We cannot let her sacrifice be in vain.” 

There is another moment of silence, and Alfred realises that Edward is wrestling with himself, knowing that they need to get back, but loath to leave Florence, despite the fact that there’s nothing more they can do for her. 

Finally, Edward nods reluctantly, exhaling shakily as he stands up, wiping his eyes. 

Alfred stands, too; he hesitates for a moment, struggling to find the words to express his feelings, before turning back to Mina.

“I am _ so _sorry, Mina,” he whispers. He thinks back to the moment he had discovered Alexandre was dead. He knows, better than anyone perhaps, the pain she is going through at this moment, and he would not wish it on his worst enemy, let alone his beloved sister. “I wish I could bring her back for you.”

Mina doesn’t look up at him or answer. She is still clutching Florence’s body. 

Alfred glances at Edward, knowing that Mina will not appreciate what he’s about to say.

“Mina,” he murmurs. She does not look up, but she makes a small sound to show that she is listening. “I know that you don’t want to, and I’m sorry to have to ask...but Papa - wherever he is - was right. We _ need _ you to stay here. We need to know that at least _ you’re _safe. And...and I will come back to you soon. I promise.”

She looks up at him doubtfully, her eyes glazed with pain. He can’t actually promise that he’ll be back, and they both know it. At this very moment, he is only alive because Florence took the bullet in his stead. 

Rather than attempting to persuade her with words, Alfred finds himself solemnly holding out his little finger to her, offering her the same silent pact that they used to give each other as children. Mina looks stunned, but she still links her own little finger with his a moment later, despite herself, despite the fact that both of them know it doesn’t mean anything anymore. 

Still feeling rather numb with shock and grief, Alfred leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Mina’s head. 

“I love you,” he whispers to her. “I’ll be back soon.” 

There are some spare guns in a chest in the corner; Alfred tries not to think too much about what they are leaving behind as he and Edward take some out, quickly loading them with some of the bullets he had managed to collect earlier. 

There is still just the one soldier in the main room, the one who had led them there. He seems rather taken aback to see them emerging from the room purposefully, their faces grim but determined. It is the work of only a few moments for the two of them to render the man unconscious and leave him slumped in a chair at the table. Perhaps a few days ago Alfred might have felt more guilt about this, but the shock of Florence’s death, and Mina and Edward’s grief, seems to have made him numb to everything else, for the moment at least. Besides, this is war. Florence may already be gone, but if he has the opportunity to take somebody out of action before they have the chance to hurt Edward as well, then he will take it gladly. Besides, he and Edward checked that the soldier was still breathing. He is luckier than Florence. 

Quickly, he and Edward pull on some spare army uniforms, checking that their guns are fully loaded before leaving the soldiers’ headquarters. 

* * *

Walking determinedly in their army uniforms, with their heads down so that the other soldiers won’t recognise them as outsiders, they make it back to the barricade quickly and easily. Keeping to the shadows, Alfred looks nervously at Edward, who reaches out and squeezes his hand gently, trying to reassure him despite the fact that the tear tracks on his own face have still not dried. Alfred inhales deeply, trying to calm his racing heart, and nods at Edward, squeezing his hand in return. Together, they climb carefully up over the barricade. 

There is a general cry of alarm from the students when they see the army uniforms, and for a moment Alfred finds himself standing with guns trained on him yet again.

“Hold your fire!” Edward shouts at them, though like Alfred he has instinctively raised his hands to shoulder height. His voice sounds firm and steady for the first time since he had seen Florence curled up, bleeding in Alfred’s arms. “It is us, Edward Drummond and Alfred Paget! We are only wearing these uniforms so we could get back to the barricade safely!”

“Alfred?” “_ My boy!” _

Alfred turns at the sound of two very familiar, very relieved voices, still holding his hands at shoulder height. 

“George,” he breathes, smiling properly for the first time in hours. “Papa!” 

“Out of the way,” Henry snaps at the students standing between them. “I need to see my boy!”

There is a general murmuring of understanding and relief as the students lower their guns, realising that it is their leader who has come back to them. Henry pushes his way towards them, George close at his shoulder. 

“You’re wearing an army uniform, Papa,” Alfred comments, rather taken aback by his father’s appearance. 

“That’s why they let me through,” he responds, his eyes tracing over Alfred’s face carefully, as though looking for any signs of damage. “You’re wearing uniform too,” he remarks after a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. 

“Yes, well, I think Edward and I had rather the same thought as you there, Papa,” he answers, looking sideways at Edward and brushing their hands together gently. This tiny gesture of affection does not go unnoticed by Henry. 

“And you’re safe, Alfred?” he asks. “You and your...Edward, is it?” He looks at Edward a little awkwardly.

“Yes, Papa,” Alfred answers quietly. “Both of us are safe.”

“Thank god,” Henry whispers, his mouth trembling with emotion, and Alfred feels a warm rush of affection for his father. “And have you seen Mina, Alfred?” he continues. “I left her in the -”

“Soldiers’ headquarters,” Alfred finishes his sentence. “Yes, Papa, we have seen Mina.” He has to blink back tears at the mere mention of her name. “She is not hurt. Or at least...she is physically unharmed.” 

“What do you mean, ‘physically unharmed’?” Henry demands, his voice sharp with fear. 

Alfred swallows. Grief seems to have clogged up his throat again.

“Florence Kerr,” he whispers. “She just jumped in front of a bullet for me. She saved my life, Papa. But she...she didn’t make it.” His eyes are filling with tears, his throat burning; he clears his throat before attempting to speak clearly again. “Mina has taken it very hard. I rather think she was falling for Florence.” 

There is a moment of silence as his father and brother both stare at him, their expressions full of shock - and more than a little guilt. Alfred knows that, in their brief interactions with Florence, neither of them had been particularly kind to her. 

“Oh,” Henry says in a small voice, breaking the silence. He looks rather ashen at the knowledge that Alfred had so narrowly avoided the bullet himself. At Alfred’s side, Edward lets out a low cry of pain, which he quickly attempts to stifle with the back of his hand; Alfred immediately reaches out to take his other hand, squeezing it gently. 

“I see,” Henry says quietly. He clears his throat. “Well then, now that there has already been one tragedy - will you boys come home with me? _ Please _?” He turns to George, as though to appeal to him. “It isn’t safe here. You have seen that quite clearly for yourselves now.” 

“I know that it’s not safe, Papa,” Alfred responds quietly. “I know that perfectly well. Of course the easy option, the safe option, would be to leave with you now. But....Edward has taught me that sometimes, the most important thing is to stand up and fight.” 

He looks at Edward, who looks back at him with an expression of pure love and pride, the corner of his mouth trembling. Though he is still answering his father, Alfred does not look away from Edward as he speaks, smiling slightly despite everything. 

“Edward isn’t going anywhere, Papa. And neither am I.” 

“Nor me,” George chimes in. 

Henry looks back and forth between the two of them for a moment, pleadingly, as though still hoping that they will both change their minds. But Alfred is utterly determined not to let Edward down; besides, he’s in far too deep now to turn back. George has the same expression of determination on his face, and Alfred can’t help but shoot him a tiny, grateful smile. Loyal to the end, as always. 

Henry gives a long, weary sigh.

“Well, that hardly leaves me much choice then, does it?” he grumbles. “I’m not going to leave my boys alone here.”

Alfred grins at him. He doesn’t think he can even begin to express his gratitude, to let his father know how much it means to him that he is not trying to force them to leave, that he is going to stay to fight despite his frequent declarations that he has already seen enough violence to last him a lifetime.

“Love you, Papa,” he murmurs quietly. 

Henry chuckles slightly, smiling at him with warm affection and pride in his eyes. 

“I love you too, my boy.” 

“You are most welcome here, sir,” Edward says, holding out his hand. Alfred can hear a slight edge of nervousness in his voice, as though he is afraid Henry is going to scold him for bringing his sons into danger, or tell him to stay away from Alfred.

Henry appraises him for a moment, and then reaches out to shake Edward’s hand, giving him a small smile. 

“Call me Henry.” 

Edward visibly relaxes, giving Henry a small smile in return. 

“Very well, then. Henry.” 

Discreetly, Alfred squeezes Edward’s other hand, feeling immensely relieved that his father and the man he loves have accepted each other so easily, despite everything. 

Edward takes a deep breath before looking up to address the others. 

“So, do we have any newcomers to welcome to our barricade?” he asks. “Who has come to fight with us?”

There is a moment of awkward silence in response to his question. 

“There are no newcomers, Drummond,” Francatelli pipes up. “Nobody has joined us to fight.” 

Alfred feels his heart sink as he sees Edward’s face fall again, shock and dismay in his eyes. 

“Nobody has joined us _ yet _,” he says firmly, desperately trying to reassure Edward and the others, although he is not sure he even believes his own words. “Perhaps the news about the barricade is still spreading. Perhaps we just need to wait a few more hours; others may be joining us throughout the night.”

Edward nods, smiling at him again, though Alfred isn’t sure he’s convinced him. 

“Ernest, any news on the other side?” Alfred asks, turning to Ernest, who has just returned from spying on the soldiers. 

Ernest nods, moving closer to them. 

“They seem to be settling down to sleep, for the most part, other than a couple who are keeping watch. Looks like they won’t attack before it’s light.”

Alfred nods at him gratefully. 

“Well in that case, I suppose we can afford to rest for a little while as well.”

Edward makes a small, doubtful noise. Alfred turns to him. 

“You need to rest, Edward,” he tells him gently. “You’ll need your strength. We all will. Besides, this gives us more time to wait for newcomers. It’s not too late.” 

Edward nods reluctantly, and Alfred squeezes his hand again. 

“Anyone care to drink with me?” George pipes up, pulling out a bottle of whiskey.

Most of the men huddle around in a circle, grinning as George pours them measures of whiskey. Henry does not join the young men, but sits down gingerly on a barrel a little distance away. Alfred can see that his father is in pain, grimacing slightly as he tries not to put weight on his wooden leg. 

“Papa?” he asks hesitantly. He knows his father hates anyone calling attention to his weakness. “Are you -”

“I am fine, thank you, Alfred,” Henry responds pointedly.

Alfred exchanges a look with George, who shrugs at him. He sighs and stays silent, deciding not to press the issue. 

“Here’s to freedom!” Albert exclaims, raising his glass. 

“Here’s to the revolution!” says Francatelli, raising his in turn. 

“And here’s to the witty girls who went to our beds!” Ernest adds with a jovial wink, brandishing a full bottle of wine that seems to have suddenly appeared in his hand as if from nowhere.

Alfred looks at Edward, giving him a small, secret smile, which Edward returns a little bashfully. 

“Here’s to you,” Edward murmurs, quiet enough so that nobody but Alfred can hear him as he raises his glass to him. 

“Thank you,” Alfred whispers.

“For what?” Edward asks.

“For saving me,” he responds simply. 

Edward looks at him for a moment, and then gives him that slow, boyish smile, the one that lights up his whole face, the one that makes Alfred feel as though he is bathed in sunlight, even though it is a cold, dark night. 

“You saved me too, Alfred,” he whispers back, and Alfred feels his heart swelling with warmth in his chest. 

Glancing around quickly to check that nobody is focused on them - though it hardly seems to matter now - Edward leans in, kissing Alfred softly and sweetly, and Alfred smiles against his mouth. 

As the others drink, making more elaborate toasts, reminiscing and forcing laughter, and still nobody else joins them, Alfred realises that not one of them is truly merry and carefree. There seems to be nothing but doubt and cold fear swirling around them, smothering them, so strong that it’s almost tangible. Even Edward looks terrified as the long minutes stretch into hours, glancing wordlessly at Alfred as it becomes increasingly apparent that they are all doing nothing but waiting, trying desperately to stave off their fear as they wonder what the morning will bring. 

Finally, unable to stand it anymore, Edward stands up, clearing his throat. 

“Thank you for helping to keep our spirits up, gentlemen,” he says. “But I think perhaps, since all is quiet, we should take the opportunity to sleep, if only for an hour or two before we fight.”

The others nod and murmur in agreement, clearly relieved to drop the pretense of jollity. 

“Who will keep watch for us?” calls young Brodie. 

“I will,” Henry says firmly, cutting Alfred off before he can give his answer.

He turns to his father, frowning.

“Papa, you must rest…”

“Do not presume to tell me what to do, please, Alfred,” Henry answers sternly. “_ You _ have certainly not troubled yourself with obeying _ my _requests recently.”

Alfred flushes slightly - his father has a point. 

“I am here to look after you,” Henry says quietly. “It is _ you _who must rest, Alfred.”

“Papa -”

“Enough, Alfred. Do as I say. Just this once, at least.” 

Alfred closes his mouth, exchanging a glance with George, who shakes his head. He sighs, and nods. His father has more military experience than the rest of them put together, after all. 

“Fine. Be careful, Papa.” 

“Always am,” Henry responds, with a small grin. 

* * *

As the young men quiet down, murmuring to each other and settling down to sleep, leaning awkwardly against chair legs and barrels in lieu of the soft pillows that they’re used to, Henry sits upright, warming himself by the light of a lantern as he watches them. 

He is impressed by their courage and determination - they are evidently not backing down, they are not going to leave despite the fact that no others have arrived to help them and they are obviously terrified. But, as he had _ tried _to tell Alfred and George, he has already seen more than enough young men die, cut off before their time. He cannot bear to see the horrors that the dawn will bring. He wishes more than anything that he could make this moment of peaceful quiet in the night last forever. 

He glances at George, who is lying awkwardly with his head propped against a barrel, his eyes closed, an uneasy expression on his face as though his fear is seeping into his dreams. He looks around for Alfred, terrified for a moment when he can’t spot him at all - then he realises that he is lying down on the ground with Edward Drummond, wrapped tightly in his arms, evidently attempting to tuck himself away and find some small shred of privacy with him. 

Looking at them, Henry realises that neither of them are actually asleep; they are gazing at each other, murmuring to each other softly. He cannot hear what they are saying at this distance. There is nothing indecent or inappropriate about it; they are both fully clothed and as far as he can tell, they are not doing anything except talking to each other quietly and soothingly. But Henry still somehow feels as though he is intruding, just by watching them; Alfred has a soft smile on his face as Drummond murmurs to him, and he is gazing at him as though the other students, the barricade, the entire world around them has melted away, and nothing exists for him in this moment except Edward Drummond. 

Unbidden, Henry feels tears welling in his eyes. And here he thought he was just a grizzled and cynical old soldier - but then, he had also believed that his son’s heart was broken beyond repair, that Alfred was too damaged and world-weary ever to put his faith in anyone ever again. He had truly resigned himself to the fact that his wonderful son would never be happy again, and there was nothing he or anyone else could do about it - all he could do was ensure that he was at least safe. 

To see him like this, determinedly announcing that he is going to fight for what is right, no matter the danger, _ glowing _with happiness and love as he looks at Edward Drummond, wrapped in his arms - it seems close enough to a miracle. Henry’s throat is burning with emotion as he watches his son. If only there was some way he could ensure that his boy would stay happy, peaceful and in love forever. He closes his eyes for a moment, envisioning Alfred laughing with Drummond, picnicking in the sunshine. He pictures the two of them curled up in front of a fireplace in their own home, reading to each other, keeping each other warm as rain patters against the window. He imagines them wrinkled with silver hair, Alfred in bed, wrapped in blankets, Edward Drummond sitting at the bedside holding his hand. 

So many years they have ahead of them to love and cherish each other, so much time for Edward to bring light back to Alfred’s life - or at least, they would have had so much time, were it not for the fact that they are so determined to fight when the morning comes, so determined to give up their lives in the fight for a better world. Henry feels his heart break at the injustice, the pointlessness of it all. How could the world possibly be so cruel as to cut them down in their young love and fearlessness and determination, and George too, each of them with everything ahead of them? If he could, he would give _ anything _to trade his own life for theirs. He has already been lucky enough to love and be loved, and he has seen enough. He is old now, and perhaps he will soon be gone anyway. 

He has never particularly believed in any divine power, having always been convinced that humans make their own destiny. But at this moment, he would give anything to believe that there is some benevolent being, somewhere out there in this messy, dark and chaotic world, some power that might intervene when the dawn breaks and the battle begins, and bring them safely home again. 

* * *

The early dawn sunlight pierces through Edward’s eyelids, making him squint painfully as he wakes up. He feels as though he had barely slept for ten minutes, terrified and anxious as he was, constantly worrying, despite his reassurances to Alfred, that the soldiers were about to start shooting at them. 

It seems to be almost unnaturally quiet; he can feel his heart pounding already as he looks around. There doesn’t seem to be any disturbance, the others are only just beginning to stir.

He looks down at the beautiful man sleeping in his arms, instinctively holding him closer; Alfred stirs, his long eyelashes fluttering as he wakes and looks up at Edward. Evidently, Edward is too slow to hide the fear in his eyes, for Alfred quickly sits up, glancing around, already on high alert. 

“What is it? What’s happening?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Edward responds, his mouth dry. But they can both feel it. Something is wrong. 

He stands up cautiously, pulling Alfred to his feet. As they walk around, the others begin to stir, standing up and muttering morning greetings to each other. Edward looks towards Alfred’s father, who is wide awake, still sitting in the same position where he was keeping watch - evidently he did not sleep at all. Henry nods tightly at them, trying and failing to summon a reassuring smile. 

As the students slowly assemble in a circle around Edward and Alfred, Edward’s stomach seems to turn to lead as he glances around. He can see the problem clearly now. 

“I do not see any new faces, Drummond,” Albert pipes up, voicing what they are all thinking. “Nobody has joined us overnight, have they?”

Edward shakes his head slowly. 

“In fact, there seem to be fewer people here than there were last night,” Francatelli says slowly. “It would appear that a few of the men who promised to fight with us have given up before we’ve even begun.” 

Edward can feel his breathing beginning to creep towards hyperventilation. _ He _ encouraged all of these people to come and fight alongside him. He tried to inspire them by telling them glorious tales of revolution and overthrowing the tyrants. But now cold, hard reality has hit them - and they’re vastly outnumbered. God, what has he _ done _? 

As if instinctively sensing his terror and self-loathing, Alfred takes his hand discreetly, squeezing it gently. Edward takes a deep, steadying breath as he squeezes his hand back, looking down into those familiar yet mesmerising blue eyes, feeling suddenly calmer and more grounded. 

An unfamiliar voice, harsh and loud, shouts suddenly over the top of the barricade, and they all turn towards it, startled out of their fear for a moment.

“You at the barricade, listen to this!” the soldier shouts. “The people of Paris sleep in their beds. No-one is coming to help you to fight. You have no chance. Give up your guns. Why throw your lives away?” 

There is a moment of shivering silence as the soldier’s warning sinks in. 

“Well, Drummond?” George asks quietly. “You heard the man. Nobody else is coming to help us. So are we going to surrender?”

Edward opens his mouth, searching for the right words to respond, but Alfred beats him to it. 

“And let them think that they’ve won?” he says scornfully. “What, did we build this barricade, gather together in the name of the republic, just so we could back down immediately? _ Damn _their warnings! We’ll surrender when hell freezes over! Right, Edward?”

He looks up at Edward, his beautiful face ablaze with determination and passion, and Edward feels his pride and his love for this incredible man burning so strongly in his chest that it almost renders him speechless. He nods, feeling a grin spreading across his face as the last vestiges of his fear seem to vanish. After all, what is there left to lose?

“Right,” he chokes out. 

_ “Vive la revolución!” _ comes a collective cry from the students gathered behind them. _ “Vive la revolución!” _

Edward feels as though there is fire coursing through his veins. This is what he came here to do. There is no turning back now.

_ “Fire!” _he shouts. 

Immediately, there is a deafening noise, like an enormous crack of thunder, as bullets begin to whizz and hail around him. Edward keeps his finger on the trigger of his gun, shooting at the soldiers on the other side of the barricade desperately, his heart pounding relentlessly in his chest, his blood thundering as he feels Alfred’s warm presence at his side, shooting at the soldiers alongside him, his beautiful face set in determination and rage like a terrifying avenging angel. 

And the soldiers are shooting back at them, some of them shouting war cries with faces full of fury, others with expressions full of fear and guilt, still others with faces that are as cold and impassive as stone. And there are so _ many _of them swarming forwards now towards the barricade, so many more soldiers than Edward could have imagined; it’s like an oncoming tidal wave of dark blue uniforms. And now the ones at the front are beginning to climb up the barricade, brandishing bayonets, continuing to fire indiscriminately. Edwards feels a potent combination of righteous fury, adrenaline and sheer terror rushing through him as he ducks and weaves to dodge the bullets that seem to be coming at him from every direction. 

He feels strangely dreamlike, almost as though the entire world around him has suddenly gone into slow motion, knowing that he must surely be only moments away from death, that any second could be his last, any of the bullets could be the end of his story. This is not just fanciful thinking born out of terror, for as he ducks and shoots desperately, growing more and more disoriented, he watches in horror as the others, his friends, are struck down around him. Albert. Ernest. Brodie. Francatelli. George. 

Watching in disbelief as scarlet blood flows across the barricade, trickling down between barrels and chairs, Edward begins to feel hopelessness pressing down on him, suffocating him. The only thing keeping him from falling to his knees is that Alfred is still standing; he can still feel Alfred’s warmth at his side. Even when they are both forced to duck in separate, random directions, they seem to always find their way back to each other’s side, as though drawn together by an invisible magnet. 

“Edward,” Alfred calls to him after a few minutes, or possibly a few hours, or perhaps even a few blood-drenched years. He sounds as though whatever he is about to say, he would give anything not to have to say it. 

“What?” he calls back. 

“I think....I think we might be the last ones left,” Alfred says, looking at him with grief and terror in his beautiful blue eyes. “I cannot see anyone else standing.” 

“No...no…” Edward gasps, his chest heaving, shaking his head as he looks around desperately. “That….that cannot be….”

But as he looks frantically around, exhausted and disorientated, he sees the truth of Alfred’s words for himself - nobody else that was fighting alongside them is standing anymore, as far as he can see at least. What’s more, it appears that the soldiers have noticed this too, for the men at the front seem to be steadily and deliberately advancing towards them. 

“Edward,” Alfred mutters, moving closer to him, “we need to move.” 

“But -” 

Alfred does not let him finish, grabbing his hand none too gently. “I said, _ move, now!” _

Clearly he is taking no chances, for before Edward can respond, Alfred is tugging fiercely at his hand, using all of his strength to pull him away from the advancing soldiers, and despite their soreness, their exhaustion and their trembling legs, the two of them break into a run. 

* * *

Although Alfred and Edward had left the soldiers’ headquarters hours ago now, Mina is still shaking, trembling with rage and grief, tear tracks fresh on her face. 

She doesn't think she slept for even a moment; she cannot bear the sight of Florence’s body and every time she glances at it, she feels a fresh surge of pain and fury rising up in her stomach, so sharp and acrid that she thinks she will be sick. Florence, her strong, beautiful, _ fearless _ Florence, had lived her life in the cold and darkness, she had been shown kindness so rarely that she was always astonished and confused by it - and yet she had still given up her life fighting for others, she had sacrificed her life to protect Alfred, to atone for the pain she had caused him. 

The man that had tried to kill Alfred, who had taken Florence’s life from her instead, was not going to be punished for causing her death. Mina doubted he considered Florence’s life to have had any worth; hell, he probably scarcely even remembered killing her. After all, what was one more death to men like that? 

Mina had never even had the chance to let Florence know that she was falling in love with her. 

Pacing up and down in the tiny room, her fists clenched, her teeth bared, Mina’s grief and rage is interrupted by a sudden barrage of deafening noise from outside. 

Running to the window hastily, Mina’s jaw drops as she sees the National Guard swarming en masse towards the barricade, shouting as they brandish their rifles and bayonets, already firing. The amount of soldiers is astonishing; she hardly has to count to know that the students behind the barricade will be vastly outnumbered. 

Henry and Alfred had both made her promise that she would just sit here in this room, no matter what, even as the man who had killed Florence and the hundreds of other men intent on killing everyone else she loved swarmed past. Did they really think she could just sit here quietly and wait for them to come back for her - _ if _ they ever came back? _ Like hell. _

Scarcely even knowing what she is doing, her blood boiling, trembling from head to foot with adrenaline, grief, fury and fear, Mina picks up a rifle from the chest in the corner, checks quickly to confirm that it’s loaded, and strolls out of the soldiers’ headquarters onto the street, slamming the door behind her. 

Mina tries to rush towards the barricade, following the soldiers - but she had not reckoned on how terrifying it would be, being caught up amidst the crowd.

The deafening noise of gunfire and soldiers shouting is overwhelming, making her head pound painfully, and though it seems a simple enough task to make her way along to the barricade with the rest of the soldiers, she soon realises that she is being buffeted this way and that by hundreds of men, men who are all intent on their goal, men who are all huge and heavy compared to her, many of them charging towards the barricade with bloodlust on their faces. 

Getting increasingly dizzy and disorientated as she is pushed and shoved about in the fray, her head spinning and heart pounding, Mina struggles to push forwards towards the barricade with the tide of soldiers. But as she tries to swallow down her fear and get her bearings properly, reminding herself that the people she loves need her, she suddenly feels a heavy, painful blow at the back of her head. Letting out a gasp of pain, she staggers, and somebody else pushes her sideways as she falls, so that she lands hard on her hands and knees on the pavement. 

Using the last of her strength to crawl away from the oncoming tide of soldiers in the street, she leans back against the wall on the mercifully empty pavement. Shaking uncontrollably, she raises a hand tentatively to her head, which is still throbbing in pain - when she looks at her hand, it is smeared in blood. 

Giggling quietly to herself at her own failure, she slides sideways against the wall behind her, and the world goes dark around her as her eyes fall shut. 

* * *

  
  


As they run through the town square only a few feet from the barricade, panting, chests searing with exhaustion, Edward feels his stomach sink as he sees a group of uniformed men coming towards them, blocking off their exit. Gasping for breath, Alfred pulls him around rapidly, and they start to run the other direction, towards the street they had just come from on the other side of the square - but there are soldiers walking towards them that way too, their faces stern, cold and impassive as they aim their guns. 

They’re cornered. 

Alfred looks at him, his mouth trembling. 

“I’m out of bullets, Edward,” he whispers. 

Edward swallows.

“Me too,” he whispers back. 

“You cannot win against us,” one of the soldiers calls to them calmly. The captain, Edward assumes. “As you can see, you are outnumbered. You must surrender to save yourselves.”

There is no need to retort; Edward can see the truth of the soldier’s words for himself. 

Breathing heavily, he glances at Alfred, and Alfred looks back at him. A mutual understanding seems to pass between them as he looks at Alfred’s determined, passionate face. He is past fear. If he is going to die, then there is no place he would rather be than here, standing beside this man. Gazing into Alfred’s eyes, he almost feels as though he has already left the earth, as though he is soaring through the sky. 

Alfred gives him a small smile, as though he can read Edward’s mind. Slowly, rather than raising his hands to shoulder height, he holds out his hand to Edward. He is only shaking a little. 

“Do you permit me?” he asks quietly.

Edward feels his eyes filling with tears as he stretches out his hand to take Alfred’s, squeezing gently.

“I knew I was right to believe in you,” he whispers, his throat burning with emotion. “I love you so much, Alfred Paget.” 

He sees Alfred swallow, his eyes glistening with tears as well.

“I love you too, Edward Drummond,” he whispers back, squeezing Edward’s hand gently in return. 

Realising that he is still holding the revolution’s flag, Edward lifts it up high above his head as he turns defiantly back to the soldiers, never letting go of Alfred’s hand.

The deafening sound of gunshots rings out, and Alfred and Edward crumple to the ground, bleeding. 

They never see the newcomer. 

  
  


* * *

_ Four Hours Later _

Dazed and disorientated, Alfred blinks his eyes open, wincing sharply as he becomes aware of a stabbing pain in his shoulder. There is weak sunlight filtering into the room, but he has absolutely no idea what time of day it is - hell, he doesn’t even know where he _ is. _

“Oh thank god, thank _ god _!” cries a familiar voice. A woman’s voice. 

Alfred blinks rapidly as the room and the woman in front of him gradually come into focus - it’s Mina. She bends down to kiss him on the top of the head, her tears falling on his hair.

Shaking his head slightly as he struggles to get his bearings, Alfred notices that Mina has a bandaged head. Looking around, he realises that he does not recognise the room they are in at all, and two unfamiliar women who seem to be wearing some kind of uniform are hovering awkwardly at the end of the room, as though trying to give them space. 

“Where are we?” he croaks out, his throat feeling strangely parched. 

“Hospital ward,” Mina murmurs quietly, kneeling at the side of his bed, grasping his hand gently and kissing it.

He feels a sinking feeling in his chest as his sluggish memory begins to clear. They were fighting. There were bullets hailing around them. He had tried to take Edward to safety. He had been standing at Edward’s side, reaching out to take his hand - and that’s the last thing he can remember. 

“What happened?” he whispers. “Why are we here?”

Mina gives a small shrug, as though they can try to pretend there is no pain, as though to say that there is nothing left they can do. 

“You tried to fight,” she says simply. “And you lost.”

“Lost?” Alfred echoes, struggling to process the word. 

Mina nods, biting her lip sharply as though she is trying to force back tears.

“But I did not stay in the soldiers’ headquarters as you told me to - I couldn’t bear it, Alfred, not when I could see that you were in such danger. And you’re bloody lucky that I didn’t listen to you, Alfred, or else you might have been left out on the street for hours while I waited in vain for you to come back to me. I took a weapon and I tried to get to the barricade, but I got knocked in the head in the crowd, and I must have passed out for a little while. Luckily it wasn’t too long before I came to - I was hurt, but not badly.

Then I went looking for you, and I managed to find you lying in the square. Thank god your wound isn’t too bad - you were shot in the shoulder, Alfred, and it seems you passed out from the pain. I knew the hospital was close by, so I managed to get help. The doctors here took the bullet out of your shoulder while you were still unconscious. You were so, so lucky, Alfred.”

_ Perhaps not so lucky _, his mind whispers. 

“What about the others?” he asks, fighting to keep his voice calm even as he feels cold dread creeping down his spine.

Mina just shakes her head at him, her breath hitching as her eyes fill with tears. 

“Where’s George?” he asks quietly, dreading the answer.

“He didn’t make it, Alfred,” she whispers, her voice choked with tears. “I found him on the barricade. Once I realised I...I couldn’t help him, I went looking for you, praying that I was not too late for you as well. I couldn’t leave you, but I told the people who work here exactly where he was, and exactly where...where Florence was…” She closes her eyes for a moment, struggling to get herself under control before she continues. “I begged the doctors to bring them here, so that neither of them would come to any further harm. They took some stretchers and went out to find them. They’re here at the hospital now. I went to see them, just a few minutes ago, before I came back to wait for you to wake.” 

“Papa?” he demands.

She shakes her head again.

“He’s gone too, Alfred,” she says quietly.

Alfred nods slowly, as though to say that he understands this and accepts it - though of course, that’s not true on either count. 

“And...and Edward?” he whispers, wondering if he is going to pass out again. Oblivion would be a blessing now.

Mina gives him a look full of pity and trepidation, as though she would give anything not to tell him the answer. Finally, she shakes her head again. The tears are streaming down her face now. 

“I couldn’t...I couldn’t find either of them anywhere, Alfred,” she says, gasping for breath slightly as she speaks, trying to calm herself down. “They...they must have been taken by the soldiers. The leader of the revolution, and the traitor wearing an army uniform.” 

“You mean taken as prisoners?” Alfred asks desperately, trying to find something he can cling to to keep the darkness at bay. 

She shakes her head slowly, putting a hand on Alfred’s uninjured shoulder and squeezing gently. 

“That’s not likely, Alfred,” she says quietly, her voice shaking. “I wish I could tell you something different. But it wouldn’t be right to get your hopes up. I’m sorry.” 

Mina’s voice seems suddenly to be coming from a long way away. The room around him seems to be swimming before his eyes again. Alfred leans forward slowly, burying his face in his hands, struggling to breathe as he feels himself shattering. Again. 

Losing Alexandre had hurt. A lot. But he seems to be falling from an even further height this time - and Edward isn’t here to save him anymore. _ Oh god. _ He can’t do this alone. 

“I’m so sorry,” Mina murmurs, her voice cracked with tears as she clutches Alfred’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “Believe me, I _ know _ how much this hurts. But the two of us, you and me - we _ can _ get through this. We can save each other, Alfred.”   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone still ok? Made it this far? Not throwing things/yelling at me? 
> 
> I know this isn't the happiest chapter I've ever written, but this fic has been a labour of love (and angst). This chapter may be the most intense one I've ever written, but I'm actually pretty happy with how it's turned out. I hope you won't storm away in a rage just yet - remember, we've still got two chapters left!
> 
> As ever, comments and kudos make my day! <3 <3 xx


	12. Climbing to the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With only Mina at his side, Alfred must cope with the aftermath of everything that happened at the barricade. Wondering where he should go from here, he reflects on the lessons that Edward had taught him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very very sorry about all the heartbreak up to this point - but at the end of the day, this story has largely been about Alfred's journey, and I am very proud of him. 
> 
> I advise against scrolling too far ahead this chapter - and maybe bring some more tissues along...

The silence is deafening as Alfred stands alone in the middle of the ABC Cafe. He feels strangely insubstantial, almost ghostlike, as he stares at the empty chairs and empty tables around him. 

This is where George had brought him, in his desperate attempt to lift Alfred from his gloom - can it really have been scarcely a week ago? And it was in this very room that Alfred had first laid eyes on  _ him _ , that he had first seen the fire, the passion burning in those beautiful, intelligent dark eyes, and he had felt something flickering to life inside him, so unfamiliar that he did not even know to call it hope. He remembers the way his hands had started trembling the moment Edward had begun to speak, how the dark and cramped room had seemed suddenly to be full of warm, bright sunlight, the way his heart had seemed to stop in that moment that Edward had first turned his gaze on him. The way Edward had looked at him in that moment...as though he had immediately been able to see right through him, as though he had been able to see the longing underneath the pain. As though he had seen right through to Alfred’s soul. 

Alfred exhales slowly, closing his eyes. And just like that, it’s as though he can hear the rustling of parchment, the murmuring of the students. He can hear Edward’s passionate, musical voice echoing around the cafe, as though he is once again standing up on a chair to address them all. 

_ “The most essential thing is that we must not allow ourselves to lose hope, to give in to bitterness or emptiness. For that is when we truly begin to lose the fight, to lose ourselves, even....If we want to keep fighting, we must look towards those we love to help guide the way.” _

He opens his eyes hopefully, almost desperately - but of course, there is still nothing in front of him but an empty room. A small sound escapes him - he isn’t quite sure if it’s a hollow laugh or a sob.

How can it be true that they’re all gone? All of the students...his beloved brother...his father….and Edward, the man he had fallen so deeply and passionately in love with, the man he had lost almost as soon as he had found him. How,  _ how  _ is it possible that he, Alfred, should be the only one left standing, when he had only arrived here in the first place as a bitter, broken man, an intruder who had not wanted to believe in the revolution, who had been terrified to let hope make him even more vulnerable than he already was? It was Edward who had taught him to let himself believe, to let himself hope. 

And now Edward is gone. There is nothing left of him except the phantom echo of his voice and his laugh, that gleeful, boyish smile that exists now only in Alfred’s vivid memories. 

“Alfred?” a voice murmurs quietly. 

He starts slightly, turning to see Mina standing in the doorway behind him. He hadn’t heard her come in. 

“I thought I might find you in here,” she says, coming closer to him hesitantly. 

Looking at her, he can see his own pain and grief reflected back at him. Somewhere under the numbness, he feels a tiny stirring of guilt. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been wallowing alone like this; he should have been sharing his grief with her, not shutting her out. Alfred can see tears welling in her blue eyes as she reaches out to put a gentle hand on his arm - tentatively, as though she is afraid he might throw her off. 

“I…” he starts, but his voice is hoarse with unshed tears, barely audible, so he swallows and tries again. “I didn’t mean to hide from you, Mina, or anything like that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” she murmurs.

“I just came here because I wanted to…”  _ to be with him _ , he finishes in his head. That’s impossible, of course. But it seems to Alfred as though this is the closest he can get to Edward now. 

Luckily, Mina seems to understand what he means without him having to say it - and she doesn’t seem to find him ridiculous.

“I know,” she says quietly, squeezing his arm gently. 

Alfred nods gratefully, not quite able to meet her eyes as his breath hitches painfully in his throat. The two of them lapse back into silence for a few moments, Alfred struggling to get his breathing back under control as Mina slowly and reassuringly strokes her hand up and down his arm. 

“Do you think that maybe we should do what Papa wanted us to do in the first place?” Mina asks, tentatively breaking the silence. Alfred looks at her questioningly. “Leave Paris, I mean,” she clarifies. “After all, there’s...there’s nothing left for the two of us here, is there? It’s all over, isn’t it?” 

“No,” Alfred responds without hesitation, his tone so certain that even he is a little surprised at himself. Mina stares at him. “We can’t leave Paris, Mina. The fight isn’t over. How could it be? The people are not free yet, are they?”

For a moment, she just looks at him in shock. Her lips twitch up in a tiny smile, her eyes welling with fresh tears. 

“I thought...I thought you were only in it for... _ him _ ,” she whispers. 

Alfred shakes his head, his breath hitching slightly again as his heart seems to clench with pain in his chest. 

“I loved him, Mina,” he tells her quietly. “More than I even thought it was possible to love somebody. And he may have been taken away from me far too quickly” - he pauses, taking another deep breath to try and steady himself, to try and push away the darkness, and Mina squeezes his hand - “but just because he isn’t here anymore, it doesn’t mean that I’m going to stop fighting. I cannot give up. That’s not what Edward would have wanted, Mina, and you know it.”

Mina is looking at him almost as though she is seeing him properly for the very first time. For his part, Alfred is still a little taken aback by his own words - but they feel right. He’s not sure he even fully understood just how much Edward had inspired him, until now. Edward may be gone, but in the all-too-brief time that he came into Alfred’s life, he brought his warmth and light to the darkness. It seems that Edward is built into him on a soul deep level now. He, Alfred, has been changed for good. 

“You’re right,” Mina whispers. “And you know what, Alfred? I don’t think that George, or… or Florence” - she pauses, her voice shaking and her eyes welling with tears again, - “would have wanted us to give up either.”

Alfred squeezes Mina’s hand tightly in response, feeling his heart constricting with grief at everything the two of them have lost, and gratitude that he still has Mina. 

“So, what are we going to do?” she whispers.

Alfred gives her a sad little half-smile.

“We’re going to pick up where Edward left off.” 

It’s certainly far from easy. The absence of his father, and his brother, and above all, the man he loved, is with him everywhere he goes, and every time he thinks of Edward smiling at him, he feels as though there is a fist clenching tightly around his heart. 

But despite it all, despite the fact that he frequently wants nothing more than to sit down and weep, to scream out his pain to the world, Alfred reminds himself what he and the students were fighting against; a tyrannical, amoral ruling class who turned a blind eye to Alexandre’s murder, who ignored the sufferings of Florence and all of those who carried a similar burden of poverty and deprivation. These tyrants, cosy in their palaces and their estates while the poor starve in their thousands on the streets, were the men who sent their soldiers to silence Edward and the others who stood up against them; with cold indifference, they had ordered the revolutionaries to be shot in cold blood for their continued defiance. 

Every day, even as the wound of losing Edward festers and remains open and sore, Alfred remembers what Edward had said about the need to keep fighting. He feels as though Edward has passed the torch of revolution to him; he  _ owes  _ it to him not to give up, to keep the spark alight. Besides, keeping up the fight helps him to feel closer to Edward. It’s the  _ only  _ way he knows to stay close to Edward. 

And so Alfred pushes forward, with Mina’s help, taking it one day at a time. The two of them write and distribute pamphlets and articles, calling attention to the travesties of the ruling class, the suffering of the poor on the streets. Alfred begins to take to the streets, trying to alert the people of Paris to the corruption surrounding them, making speeches much as Edward had done on the first evening Alfred had met him. 

He had never really thought of himself as particularly passionate, charismatic or inspiring, or at least, he was certainly nothing compared to Edward’s dazzling light. But, to his surprise, people on the streets  _ do  _ seem drawn to him; they come gradually, slowly but surely. More often than not, Mina is standing at his side, a constant, reassuring and supportive presence. Sometimes, she turns to him and gives him a little half-smile, and he understands that she’s silently telling him how proud Edward would be if he could see him. The pain doesn’t ever vanish, of course. It’s still there, every moment of every day, throbbing away dully, sometimes flaring up sharply and unexpectedly like an open wound being poked at. Alfred supposes that pain is just going to be part of him forever now. But when Mina gives him that little sideways smile, Alfred’s mind conjures up Edward and  _ his  _ proud smile that was like sunlight, the way Edward had looked at him with pure love and adoration. And even though the memories hurt, they also fuel him, reminding him that he’s continuing Edward’s mission, Edward’s revolution, even though Edward is no longer here. It fills Alfred with warmth, it makes him remember why his heart is still beating, when he thinks to himself that, wherever Edward is, he must still be looking down at Alfred with love and pride. 

The thought of carrying on Edward’s work, making him proud, leads Alfred to speak to the crowds with ever more passion and determination - perhaps he would never have believed himself capable of it before he met Edward, but he truly believes in the cause, despite everything. And it seems that the more passionate and fierce his speeches, the more people flock towards him to listen to what he has to say. From what he can tell, many of them are bitterly angry about the fate of the students on the barricade, outraged at the brutal and unjust way that they met their end at the hands of the National Guard. The people of Paris are more riled up for a fight now than they were before, determined to avenge the students who had been trying to protect them. 

Gradually, as time passes, and Alfred no longer feels completely overwhelmed by grief as soon as he sets foot in there, he decides that the new revolutionaries who have gathered to the cause should be meeting in the ABC Cafe, the very place where he first met Edward, where his world had turned on its axis. They use the tavern not just for meetings, but as a base where they serve food to the homeless, the poor who are living on the streets. Alfred arranges it so that the people who need shelter, as Florence had, can come to the tavern for warmth and safety. It seems like the best way to honour the memory of Edward and all the others, the best way to keep the flame alive. After a while, it even comforts him a little, standing in the space that was once Edward’s sanctuary. 

It still hurts, Alfred can’t deny it. But he’s still fighting, he’s still hoping. With Mina’s help, he can do this. He  _ will  _ do this. 

For Edward.

* * *

_ Six Months Later  _

“You’re very different now to how you were before,” Mina says to him quietly one evening. It’s rather late at night, and the ABC Cafe is, for once, empty except for the two of them, the meeting which Alfred had organised having just finished. “After Alexandre, I mean.”

Alfred leans back in his chair slightly, considering her words.

“Well, I thought at the time that I had been in love with Alexandre,” he answers. “But, in hindsight, I know now that it was nothing but an infatuation. What I felt for Alexandre did not even come close to how much I loved Edward.” 

He swallows down the pain, trying to keep himself under control, willing his voice not to give him away by shaking too much. 

“I know there was a time when I would have scorned at the very idea, or at least pretended to, but...I truly do believe that Edward was my soulmate, Mina. I will never again meet anyone else like him.” 

His voice shakes slightly despite his attempt to keep calm, and Mina reaches out to squeeze his hand gently. He squeezes her hand back, shooting her a small, grateful smile. 

“After Alexandre, before I met Edward, I had almost entirely given up on everyone and everything around me,” he continued, feeling a little twinge of the old self-loathing, which he had not felt for many months now. “I was utterly useless, and as you know, I was hurting and frustrating the people around me, albeit unintentionally - and for that I am sorry.” 

Mina tilts her head slightly as she looks at him, waiting patiently for him to continue. 

“But Edward inspired me so much, Mina. He was the one who taught me that it is only when we stop fighting, when we give up hope, that we are truly lost. He once told me, when I was frightened and unsure, that even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise. It’s because of Edward that I realised that I cannot afford to give up on  _ anything  _ \- not even myself.”

Mina’s eyes are welling with tears as she listens to him speak. She stands up wordlessly, still holding Alfred’s hand, and leans forward, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. 

With a quiet sniff, she turns away again - possibly in the vain hope that Alfred will not notice her tears - and bends over the table that he is sitting at, setting about gathering up parchments and tidying things away. 

Alfred shakes his head.

“Leave those, Mina, I’ll sort them out,” he says. “It’s getting late, you should be heading home.”

Mina frowns. 

“Are you sure - ?”

“Positive,” he says firmly. “I’ve got to stay and write a few letters, anyway.”

She still looks a little doubtful, but something in his face seems to persuade her not to argue.

“I’ll see you later, then,” she says reluctantly, and he nods. “Don’t stay too late, though, Alfred.”

He gives her a small grin, which he hopes she won’t immediately see through.

“I’ll try.” 

Once Alfred is alone in the tavern, it’s easy to lose track of time, with no sounds but the slow and relentless ticking of the clock in the corner and the irregular scratching sounds of his quill on the parchment in front of him. 

As the shadows lengthen around him, flickering in the dim candlelight, Alfred realises that he is not going to get any further with the letter he is writing, no matter how important it is - at least, not tonight. He sits twirling the quill absentmindedly in his hands, staring blankly at the wall. 

He may have told Mina about the way Edward had inspired him, and the hope that keeps him going. And it’s true, for the most part. He is able to hold himself together reasonably well, most of the time. But it is in moments like these - sitting alone, thinking about how Edward had once sat here at this very table in his passion, his brilliance and his radiance, thinking about the fact that he is never going to see that joyful, boyish smile again - that the pain feels so unbearable that it almost chokes him. 

Alfred sighs heavily, throwing his quill unceremoniously down on the parchment as he leans his elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands. 

He is just so tired of living with this pain, so tired of being without him. He misses him so much. 

Alfred hears the door opening behind him, but he does not bother to look up, figuring that Mina must have changed her mind about leaving him alone and returned to drag him home with her. Probably for the best, he supposes. 

“Somebody told me that I might find Alfred Paget here?” 

The voice is deep, quiet and melodic. 

Alfred raises his head from his hands, hardly daring to turn around. His heart seems to have stopped. That voice...he would know that voice  _ anywhere _ .

He stands up and turns around, slowly, his heart so full of both terror and hope that he fears it might explode. What if there’s absolutely nothing there, just an empty tavern?

But the tavern is not empty. Standing in front of him, a little more dishevelled than Alfred remembers him, his hair longer, wilder and even curlier than Alfred has ever seen it, is none other than Edward Drummond. He is staring at Alfred with that familiar, awestruck little smile, those beautiful intelligent dark eyes tracing over Alfred’s face, drinking in the sight of him. But he does not move forward; there is something hesitant, tentative about him, as though he too is half-terrified that Alfred is nothing but a figment of his imagination. 

“Edward?” Alfred whispers, dazed. 

Edward nods with a smile, his dark eyes welling with tears, and Alfred takes one tentative step closer to him, feeling his heart pounding in his chest, still wondering if he’s dreaming. Or maybe he’s just finally gone insane.

“But I...I thought that you were gone. Forever.” Alfred’s voice cracks. His tears are beginning to blur his vision. 

Edward shakes his head, grinning a little as a single tear rolls down his cheek. He steps closer to Alfred, his eyes still tracing hungrily over Alfred’s face. 

“Well...I  _ was  _ gone,” he whispers. “But I have come back now, Alfred. And I think that I would rather like to join you in your revolution - if you’ll have me, that is. I hear that you are the leader?”

Alfred makes a small, choked sound as he takes another step towards Edward; half-laugh, half-sob. 

For a moment the two of them just stand there, dazed, gazing at each other. There are mere inches between them now. Alfred still isn’t entirely convinced that he’s not dreaming. But every fibre of his being is crying out for Edward’s touch. 

He could not have said which one of them had moved first. All he knows is that there is a small intake of breath from one of them - or perhaps both - and a moment later, they abandon all hesitation, flinging themselves towards each other. Their arms wrap tightly around each other, Alfred’s heart close to bursting with dizzy joy as he feels Edward’s reassuringly solid and warm body in his arms. 

Both of them are crying and laughing at the same time as their lips meet. Alfred’s eyes flutter shut as he feels Edward’s thumb come up to his cheek, gently wiping his tears away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I'm not THAT evil! I hope everyone feels a bit better now XD
> 
> One last chapter to tie up all the loose ends!


	13. The Sun Will Rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward tells Alfred his story. But, as it turns out, the surprises aren't quite over yet for either of them...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooof...sorry this took a little while, this was one of the most intense chapters I've ever written. There's still quite a bit happening, but we're finally tying up all the loose ends. I can't promise that it's all fluff - but we're definitely out of the woods now.   
I hope the conclusion of this story is as satisfying to read as it was to write!

Alfred lies in Edward’s arms, their glowing bodies tangled together so closely that he can scarcely tell where his body ends and Edward’s begins, the blankets in a twisted mess around them. 

As they both struggle to calm down and catch their breath, Alfred cannot help but run his hands slowly, reverently, across Edward’s firm stomach, his chest, his arms, his broad shoulders, silently marvelling at the soft, warm expanse of skin beneath him. Edward raises his head from the pillow behind him and reaches out, catching Alfred’s hand and raising it to his lips. His dark eyes gleaming with love, Edward does not look away from Alfred’s face for a second as he gently kisses each finger in turn, pressing an extra soft kiss onto his palm for good measure. 

Alfred feels his breath hitch, wondering if it’s possible for his heart to expire from pure joy as he moves his hand to cup Edward’s warm, chiselled cheek, feeling his slight stubble, revelling in tracing over his bright smile. 

“You really are here,” Alfred whispers in awe. 

Even after what they had just done, after he had pulled Edward back to his house and they had laid their love bare in the warmth and safety of Alfred’s bedroom, even after the most loving and passionate night Alfred had ever experienced in his life, joy, wonder and relief rushing through his veins as he had explored every inch of Edward’s beautiful body - even now, he is half-afraid to raise his voice above a whisper. Just in case this is nothing but the most wonderful, glorious dream, and he accidentally shatters it with his carelessness. 

Edward nods, pressing another little kiss to Alfred’s fingers as Alfred slowly traces over his lips. 

“I really am here,” he breathes, following Alfred’s lead and whispering. “And what’s more, I’m never leaving your side again. I promise.”

Alfred feels his answering beam spreading across his face; he doesn’t think he could stop smiling if he tried. Watching him, Edward smiles softly in return, before leaning forward to capture Alfred’s lips gently. Alfred knows Edward is the one who had gone away. But this soft, warm kiss still feels like a welcome home. 

When they break apart, Alfred leans forward to press his forehead against Edward’s, eyes still closed, trembling with emotion. 

“I’m going to hold you to that, you know,” Alfred whispers back, and Edward grins. But Alfred’s smile fades slightly after a moment. 

“But I still don’t understand  _ how  _ you’re here,” he says, and Edward’s smile fades too.  _ Please, god, don’t let this be a dream. Don’t let this be the moment he wakes up.  _

“You were...you were just  _ gone _ , Edward. For  _ so long.  _ Without a word, without a sign. Everyone said you were…” 

He chokes on the word, unable to finish the sentence, and Edward reaches out, cupping Alfred’s face soothingly in his large, warm hands. 

“I’m fine,” he whispers. “I’m right here, Alfred.” 

Alfred takes a deep breath, trying to get himself under control.

“Where  _ were  _ you, Edward? What  _ happened?”  _

Edward sighs slightly, releasing Alfred as he leans back against the headboard. 

“It’s a long story.”

Alfred curls into Edward’s side, resting his arm across his lover’s chest. 

“Well, we’ve got time,” he says quietly, relishing the words. 

Edward looks down at him, wrapping his arms around him as that joyful, boyish grin spreads across his face again. 

“Yes. We do have time. Finally,” he responds, pressing a kiss to the top of Alfred’s head. “But I can’t explain  _ all  _ of it, Alfred. There are some parts that even  _ I  _ don’t know.”

“Well, tell me everything you  _ do  _ know, then,” Alfred murmurs, pressing a kiss to his bare chest. 

“Very well,” Edward answers, his brow furrowed as he chews on his lower lip thoughtfully. “Where to begin…”

* * *

** _Six Months Earlier_ **

_ Edward blinked his eyes open hazily. The first things he noticed were the strange dryness of his mouth, and the dull, throbbing ache in his chest. _

_ His neck was extremely stiff and sore - though he seemed to be lying on a mound of pillows - so it cost him an effort to look around and take in his surroundings. The room did not look familiar at all. It was tidy and spotless, but it also seemed rather austere, in a sterile sort of way. And he was not alone - around him were other people lying in beds, beds which all looked exactly the same. Here and there, curtains were drawn around some of the beds so that he could not catch a glimpse of the people in them. A few women were hovering around the room, all wearing the same neutral-toned uniforms. Some of these women seemed to be administering liquids to the other bedridden people; others appeared to be conversing with each other in undertones, now and then darting anxious glances at the….patients? Was that where he was? Some kind of hospital wing? But why would he be in hospital?  _

_ He blinked, trying to process everything, but his mind was sluggish, swirling with a thick, confused fog. He attempted to sit up, hoping it might help him to think more clearly, but a sharp pain stabbed through his chest as soon as he moved, making him cry out slightly without meaning to. The sound made two of the women hovering near his bed turn towards him, mingled alarm and relief written across their faces.  _

_ “Monsieur!” one of them whispered, hurrying towards him. “We have all been so worried about you! How are you feeling?”  _

_ “I...I am in some pain,” he responded, still somewhat dazed, his voice raspy from disuse. He swallowed, trying to clear his throat. “Please, Madame, where are we? Is this Paris?” _

_ The woman - a nurse, he presumed - shook her head.  _

_ “No, Monsieur. You are in Digne.” _

_ Edward nodded slowly, though he was not much the wiser from this information - he was not entirely sure where Digne was. _

_ “Are we close to Paris?” he asked. _

_ She shook her head again. _

_ “Not really, Monsieur. It is many hours from here by carriage.”  _

_ He nodded again.  _

_ “How long have I been here?” _

_ She exchanged an uneasy glance with the other nurse who had approached his bedside.  _

_ “Five days, Monsieur. You had been shot, you see. You were wounded. Quite badly wounded.”  _

_ Finally, the fog in his brain began to form slowly into memories. There had been a barricade, they had waited in vain for others to join them...his Alfred, his beautiful Alfred had been there, he had passionately announced that they could not surrender...there had been a hail of bullets, blood streaming around them as he watched his friends fall...Alfred had pulled him away from the soldiers....they had been cornered….Alfred had squeezed his hand tightly….deafening gunshots….a brief moment of fierce, burning pain….and then everything had gone dark.  _

_ Edward felt fear and panic burning in his chest, like poison. If he was here...then where was his Alfred? He swallowed, his heart and head both pounding painfully. He scarcely knew what to ask next.  _

_ “How...how did I get here?” he croaked.  _

_ “There was a man who brought you here, Monsieur,” the other nurse responded, after a brief moment’s hesitation. “You were unconscious. He was wounded, too, he seemed exhausted - but he would not allow us to tend to him.”  _

_ Edward frowned.  _

_ “Do you know who this man was?”  _

_ The nurse shook her head.  _

_ “No, Monsieur, he did not give us his name. He told us that he had taken you from the fallen barricade - he said that once the soldiers had gone, he carried you to safety through the sewers of Paris.” _

_ “And the others?” Edward asked urgently, struggling to keep his despair at bay. “Did this man say anything about the others?” _

_ The women looked at him with pity in their eyes.  _

_ “He said that he did not believe there were any other survivors,” the nurse who had spoken first quietly told him.  _

_ But that meant….Edward felt his heart crack and break into two. The woman’s next words seemed to reach him from a very long way away.  _

_ “He told us that it was of the utmost importance that we do everything in our power to nurse you back to health, Monsieur. We saw that he was wounded too, though not as badly as you. We tried to persuade him to stay here so we could tend to him as well, but he refused - he said there was no point in us trying to help him. He thanked us for agreeing to tend to you, and then...then he left. We have neither seen him nor heard any word from him since.”  _

_ Edward nodded. He could not summon much curiosity about his saviour. It didn’t seem to matter now. Nothing seemed to matter now.  _

_ The nurse hesitated before speaking again. _

_ “The bullet has been extracted and your wound has been stitched up, Monsieur. But I’m afraid we must ask you to remain here in our care a little longer. You lost quite a lot of blood, it will take a while for you to regain your strength. We need to ensure that you are healthy before you leave.” _

_ Edward nodded again, her words scarcely registering.  _

_ “Please, Monsieur,” the other nurse asked tentatively, “what is your name? The man who brought you here didn’t tell us; I’m not sure if he knew. We can write to someone from Paris so that they know you are here, if you would like? Do you have an address for your family? Your wife, perhaps?” _

_ Edward felt a clenching sensation in his chest.  _

_ “My name is Edward Drummond,” he said shortly. “And no. There is nobody to write to. I don’t have anybody.” _

_ His voice cracked slightly as he said it, the realisation of how true it was pressing down like a heavy weight on his chest. The nurses exchanged an uneasy glance, and Edward realised that his tears were trickling silently down his cheek as he spoke. He couldn’t summon the energy to hide his face, to feel any embarrassment or shame.  _

_ “Very well, Monsieur Drummond,” the first nurse said, breaking the silence. “We will keep you here until you are well enough to leave, and then we will do our best to help you after that.” _

_ He nodded wordlessly. He had nothing left to say.  _

_ They had kept him in the hospital for almost two weeks after that, before finally giving him permission to leave. He had not minded - it scarcely made any difference to him whether he was free to move around or not, now.  _

_ There was an empty gardener’s cottage in the hospital grounds, which the nurses offered to him, as well as a job working in the hospital’s vegetable garden. Edward accepted both the job and the cottage without hesitation, but without any enthusiasm either. The work he was doing was hardly very inspiring or meaningful for him - nothing like the life he had left behind him in Paris. But that life was gone now, he reminded himself frequently, and there was no point in wishing otherwise. He had tried to lead a revolution, lead the way to a better world. And he had failed. He had failed all of his loyal friends who had put their faith in him, who had trusted him.  _

_ And above all, he had failed Alfred. Alfred, the man he had believed in even when he hadn’t believed in himself. Alfred, who had been so hesitant to believe in Edward’s conviction that they could build a better world. Alfred, who had learnt to have faith, who had shown Edward, with a little encouragement, just how strong and brave and passionate he could be. Alfred, whom Edward had so quickly fallen in love with, whom Edward had loved more than anyone in the world, more than he had even known it was possible to love. And Edward had let him down. There was no more Alfred in the world. And it was his fault.  _

_ The days in Digne turned into weeks, and the weeks gradually turned into months, but Edward was scarcely aware of the passing of time. Every day was much the same as the one before. The pain and the guilt continued to gnaw away at him every moment, and though the wound from his gunshot had been stitched up and had healed into a small, neat scar, the loss of Alfred felt like another wound, a wound which was far worse, steadily infecting him and refusing to heal. Edward took to drinking more than he had done before, more than was wise, in a desperate attempt to distract himself, but it did not help. Nothing seemed to help.  _

_ There were some moments when Edward thought about the mysterious man who had rescued him from the barricade and brought him here. He had no idea if the man had left Digne after delivering him to the hospital, and he could not seem to summon enough willpower or curiosity to look for him. He supposed he ought to have felt more gratitude towards the man, whoever he was - but though he was sure the stranger’s intentions had been good, he was not convinced that this man had truly  _ helped  _ him by bringing him here, forcing him to live without Alfred, alone in the world, with the knowledge that he had failed. Sometimes he even felt an irrational anger towards the stranger - who the hell  _ was _ this man, who thought that he had the right to choose who lived and who died? What was so special about Edward, that he should be left alive while his friends, Florence, and the love of his life, Alfred, had all been left to die?  _ Had  _ he truly been saved - or was this some sort of twisted punishment, some divine retribution for giving people false hope, for leading everyone he loved to their deaths like lambs to the slaughter?  _

_ There were other moments when Edward thought about Paris and the people there who still needed a revolution to rescue them. Sometimes he wondered briefly if he should make his way back there. But he always dismissed the thought as quickly as it came to him; there was nothing left for him in Paris, nothing but ghosts. The people might need a hero - but the enormity of his failure had proved that whoever that hero was, it was not him.  _

_ Sitting in one of Digne’s taverns one day, Edward cradled his tankard of ale, wondering vaguely how many months it had been now since that day, the day he had lost everything. He had long ago lost track of time. _

_ He was just pondering whether it would be a poor idea to go up and order another drink when he was startled by the sound of his own name.  _

_ “Poor Drummond,” a man was saying, shaking his head wearily as he took a draught from his tankard.  _

_ “Drummond?” his drinking companion asked. “Old Charles Drummond, you mean?” _

_ “The very same,” the first man confirmed.  _

_ Edward felt a strange kind of dull constricting sensation in his chest. It must be over two years now, surely, since the last time he had set eyes on his staunchly monarchist father, who had thrown Edward out of the family home when he had made his passion for a republic clear. It was so long now since he and his father had cut ties, he had not even considered mentioning him when the nurses at the hospital had asked him if there was anyone he needed to contact back in Paris.  _

_ “I heard, back in Paris,” the first man continued, “that old Charles Drummond is on his deathbed. Very weak. Delirious with fever. They say he keeps asking for his estranged son, Edward.” _

_ “Poor old bastard,” the other man responded, shaking his head. “Edward Drummond died on the barricade, back in June. He was their leader. Common knowledge, isn’t it?” _

_ The first man shrugged.  _

_ “From what I heard, old Drummond is completely refusing to believe anyone when they try to tell him his son is dead. Sheer stubborn denial, if you ask me. He’s even said he’s leaving everything to his son. Apparently, in his delirium, he’s been begging everyone who comes to his bedside to find his son Edward and bring him to him. Apparently he’s been saying that he’ll do anything to see his boy one more time, to beg his forgiveness.” _

_ “Well, the old man’s going to die disappointed then, isn’t he?” the second man said bluntly.  _

_ The first man grunted and put his tankard down heavily on the table.  _

_ “We should get going, Pierre, it’s getting late.” _

_ Edward kept his back turned to the two men as they filed out of the tavern, his heart pounding in his chest. He pushed the tankard away, the tipsy haze in his head having suddenly vanished. He felt as though he was fully awake and alert, for the first time in months.  _

_ It had never occurred to him that his father would want to be reunited with him. After all, he had made his feelings perfectly clear when he had shouted that he never wanted Edward to darken his doorstep again. Edward had gone to friends for shelter for a little while, before settling in the tiny, dingy apartment next to Florence and her family. He had lived his life, always trying his best to look to the future and not the past. In many ways, it had been liberating, not having to pretend any longer to be somebody that he was not to please his father. And yet...there had always been that little murmur of regret, of guilt, at the back of his mind. Was it petty of him, wrong of him, not to at least  _ try  _ to make amends, to be the bigger person? He could not have apologised for being who he was, for his belief in the republic - but perhaps he should have been making more of an effort to reconcile with his father, who was, after all, the only family member that Edward had left. He had known full well when he went to fight at the barricade with Alfred and the others that he would very likely die - he assumed that he had run out of chances.  _

_ But now it seemed that he had been wrong - he  _ did  _ have another chance. He had been allowed to live while everyone he loved had been struck down around him, for some unfathomable reason. Was  _ this  _ the reason, then? To give him one last chance to reconcile with his father, to comfort him and finally let bygones be bygones, so that Charles Drummond could die in peace? _

_ Edward had been determined never to return to Paris. But if his father was lying on his deathbed there, if it was really true that he was desperate to see Edward again before the end of his life, clinging onto hope despite others telling him Edward was already dead...Edward could not deny that it would be coldhearted to the point of needless cruelty for him to stay away now.  _

_ As soon as the morning came, he was in a carriage bound for Paris. There was nothing he had needed to do in Digne, other than thank the nurses who had done so much for him and given him work - he had stayed out of everyone else’s way for the most part. _

_ A growing feeling of unease was twisting and coiling in his stomach through the long journey. What misery would he find, in this city that he had tried and failed to protect? He had sworn that he would stay away - and now here he was, returning to Paris purely because of hearsay. What if he was too late, and his father had already died? Or worse still, what if the people he had overheard had got completely the wrong message, and his father was still furious at him? What if he arrived at his father’s house, only to be rejected? Could he bear that now, after everything he had been through?  _

_ By the time the carriage finally trundled into the centre of Paris, Edward still attempting to calm his racing heart, the sun was setting, staining the sky mauve and gold. But he could not help but notice that there seemed to be groups of young people in the streets; students, by the look of them. None were people he recognised. But they seemed to be rallying others around them as they made speeches - speeches about faith and courage, about the dawning of a new world, about revolution. As the carriage brought him closer to his father’s house, he even caught a glimpse of some posters on walls and the sides of houses, calling for the citizens of Paris to rise up and avenge the students who had died for them on the barricade.  _

_ Edward felt choked up, trying to swallow against the sudden lump of emotion in his throat. For the first time in months, he felt a small stirring of hope somewhere deep in his chest. Could it really be true? Was the revolutionary cause that he had championed still alive in Paris, against all the odds? Were there really still people daring to hope, daring to fight?  _

_ When the carriage finally pulled up outside the house in which he had grown up, Edward approached the imposing front door with trepidation, trying once again to calm his breathing. It had been so long since he had last been here, since he had last enjoyed the luxury and ease of living with his wealthy father. Would he truly be welcome, now that he was back? He supposed there was only one way to find out.  _

_ Taking a deep breath, Edward reached out to knock on the door. Only a few moments passed before he heard footsteps on the other side, and the door was flung open, revealing his father’s faithful old butler, Monsieur Gillenormand.  _

_ Gillenormand’s face drained of colour when he saw Edward standing on the doorstep. Mouth opening and closing wordlessly for a moment, he stared at him, as though he thought he might be looking at a ghost.  _

_ “M...Monsieur Edward,” he choked out. _

_ “Monsieur Gillenormand,” Edward responded curtly, inclining his head.  _

_ “But they said...they said that you were dead…” _

_ “Well, I am not, as you see,” Edward answered. “I have come to see my father, Gillenormand. I heard that he has been asking for me?” _

_ “I...yes, he has, but…” the butler stuttered.  _

_ Edward felt a rush of relief.  _

_ “Please, Gillenormand, where is he?” _

_ “Up...upstairs, in his bedroom,” Gillenormand replied faintly. “But Monsieur…” _

_ Not waiting for the butler to finish, Edward immediately pushed past him and ran up the familiar staircase, his heart still pounding at the thought of reuniting with his father after all this time, wondering just how weak he was, wondering if he would even be awake.  _

_ His father’s bedroom door was open - evidently the butler had just left.  _

_ “Gillenormand?” croaked a familiar voice, fainter and weaker than Edward had ever heard it. He moved cautiously into the doorway.  _

_ “No, Father. It’s me.” _

_ “Edward?” _

_ He sounded as if he scarcely dared to believe that he was not dreaming.  _

_ Edward nodded, moving closer to the bed so that his father could see him properly.  _

_ He felt a lump of emotion rise in his throat again. Charles Drummond looked so much older and frailer than he had been the last time Edward had seen him; grey, wrinkled, exhausted, shivering as his bony hands clutched at the blankets for dear life. But it was the look in his eyes that moved Edward more than anything. His father, who had looked at him with such fury two years ago, was now gazing at him as though he was afraid to even blink, for fear that his son would have vanished again by the time he opened his eyes.  _

_ “You came back,” Charles whispered. “My boy. My boy came back to me.”  _

_ Edward nodded again.  _

_ “Yes, Father, I came back. I heard that you wanted to see me.” _

_ “People tried to tell me that you were dead, Edward,” his father choked, still gazing at him fearfully as though worried that he was insubstantial, a ghost. “But I didn’t believe it. I never believed it.” _

_ Edward swallowed and tried to force a smile. _

_ “Well, look at that - you were right for once, Father,” he tried to joke.  _

_ Charles gave a weak chuckle, which quickly turned into a fit of hollow coughs. Edward reached out towards him in concern.  _

_ “Father -”  _

_ “I am alright, Edward,” Charles choked out as the coughing fit subsided. “In fact, I am much, much better than alright, now that you are here.” _

_ Touched, Edward squeezed his father’s hand gently.  _

_ “You will have heard, I expect, that I have reinstated you in my will?” Charles murmured. “Even though they all told me I was just a delusional old man who could not face reality…” _

_ Edward nodded tentatively. _ _   
_ _ “I did hear that,” he admitted. “But that is not why I returned, Father, I promise.” _

_ “I know that, you silly boy,” Charles said with a small smile. “Do you think I do not know my own son? Even when you were making me furious, even when I was tempted to wring your neck, you have never been anything other than the bravest and most noble man I have ever known.” _

_ Edward felt tears stinging his eyes and he looked down. _

_ “I have finally learnt to accept you and be proud of you, my boy,” his father whispered. “I am only sorry that it took me such a ridiculously long time.” _

_ Edward tried to swallow against the lump in his throat.  _

_ “I am sorry, too,” he murmured. “Not for my political views, I cannot apologise for my beliefs. But I am sorry for some of the things I said to you when we argued. I was unfair.” _

_ Charles shook his head, squeezing Edward’s hand with what little strength he had.  _

_ “I have no need for apologies from you, Edward,” he said quietly. “You have always treated me better than I deserved. I am just so happy to have had the chance to see you, and to apologise, before I die. I love you and accept you, no matter what. I only hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive a petty and foolish old man.”  _

_ “Of course I forgive you, Father,” Edward responded, squeezing his hand back. “There can be no question of that. How could you think otherwise?”  _

_ Charles smiled up at him gratefully. _

_ “Thank you, my boy,” he said simply. “Thank you.”  _

_ The two of them lapsed into silence for a few moments, Edward chewing on his lip, deep in thought. He did not know how much time his father had left, and he had an urge to unburden himself of his secrets, to make sure his father truly understood him before he died. But he was not entirely sure that he dared, even now.  _

_ “Father,” he started hesitantly, and Charles hummed quietly to show that he was listening. “Did you truly mean it, before, when you said that you will still love me and accept me - no matter what I have done, or what I tell you?” _

_ Charles opened his eyes, looking at him with a small grin.  _

_ “I already know that you were fighting on the barricade in June, Edward,” he answered. “I believe I have worked that out by now. And yes, I still accept you and love you, despite that. In fact, strangely enough, I think it makes me even more proud of you.” _

_ Edward flushed a little. _

_ “Thank you, Father - but that was not what I was going to tell you.”  _

_ “Oh?” Charles said curiously. “What is it then?” _

_ He took a deep breath, steeling himself for his father’s shock. _

_ “While I was preparing for the fight, I...I fell in love. I fell in love with a man, Father.” _

_ Charles stared at him. _

_ “A  _ man _ ?”  _

_ Edward nodded. _

_ “His name was Alfred Paget. He joined me on the barricade, but...” - Edward’s eyes filled with tears, and the familiar clenching sensation in his chest tightened painfully. He had never actually said the words out loud before - “he died. He didn’t make it, Father.” _ _   
_ _ Edward tried unsuccessfully to blink back his tears. The pain still hadn’t gone away, no matter how much he tried to ignore it.  _

_ His father was silent for a moment, frowning slightly.  _

_ “This man’s name was Alfred Paget?” he asked quietly.  _

_ Edward nodded. There was a pause.  _

_ “Are you  _ sure  _ he’s dead, Edward?” Charles asked.  _

_ Edward froze, staring at his father.  _

_ “Why do you ask?” he whispered.  _

_ A tiny spark of hope had flickered to life inside him at his father’s words - but no, it would be foolish to let it take hold, it would only hurt all the more… _

_ “Well, there have been other young people like you who have taken to making speeches on the streets, since the barricade fell in June,” Charles said slowly. “I used to see them at it, back before this illness took hold and I became bedridden. They keep insisting in their speeches that there will still be a revolution, that those who fell on the barricade will be avenged. And I could swear that I had heard them talking about Alfred Paget, many times. From what I could understand - I think he is their leader.” _

_ Edward blanched. No...it could not be….after everything he had suffered...it was too good to be true… _

_ “In fact, I think I have seen him making speeches himself a few times, and seen the others talking to him, if I am thinking of the right person,” his father mused. “Alfred Paget...medium height, slender build, bright blond hair, striking blue eyes, am I right? He stands out a mile in a crowd, I should say it’s small wonder they’ve made him their leader.” _

_ Edward’s heart was pounding, his head spinning. His entire world seemed to have suddenly turned upside down - no, perhaps it was more accurate to say that it had finally righted itself, he thought. The tiny spark of hope in his chest had burst into a bright flame, warming him from the inside out.  _

_ Hastily, he stood up, pushing his chair hastily back from the bed. _

_ “I’m sorry, Father, I shall return as soon as I can, but....if what you say is true, then I need to find him. Right now.”  _

_ Charles looked up at him with a small smile. _

_ “I told you, Edward, there are no apologies needed. And as for your question from before - perhaps it would have once, but it does not offend me now if you are in love with a man. As long as he is worthy of you, that is. It’s obvious how miserable you have been without him. So the answer is yes - I still accept you and love you. No matter what.” _

_ For the first time in six months, Edward felt a grin spreading across his face.  _

_ “Thank you, Father,” he breathed, turning towards the door.  _

_ “Edward,” Charles said, calling out after him as loudly as he could manage, and Edward turned back to him.  _

_ “If you do find him...bring him home, will you? I should like to meet the man my son loves, at least once.” _

_ Edward felt his heart swelling in his chest. Beaming, he leaned down and kissed his father’s wasted cheek. Charles let out a surprised chuckle at this show of affection.  _

_ “I’ll be back soon!” he called over his shoulder, already running out of the room.  _

_ Dashing past the still-bemused Gillenormand, his heart racing, every inch of him alight with hope, excitement and anxiety, Edward ran around the corner, retracing the path the carriage had taken, until he found the closest group of students that he had seen proclaiming on the street on his way there.  _

_ “Alfred Paget,” Edward blurted breathlessly.  _

_ One of the students turned to him, raising his eyebrow suspiciously at this outburst. _

_ “What about him?” he asked coolly.  _

_ “Is he your leader? Is that true?” _

_ The man continued to look at him suspiciously.  _

_ “Please, my name is Edward Drummond. Alfred is an old friend of mine.” _

_ The desperation in Edward’s voice seemed to set the man at ease. _

_ “Yes, Alfred Paget is our leader,” he responded, his tone less hostile.  _

_ Edward felt his heart swell - joy, relief, astonishment, pride….too many feelings to handle all at once.  _

_ “Please,” he choked out, “please tell me where I might find him.”  _

_ “Well, he usually stays at headquarters until quite late,” the student answered. “I imagine you’ll still find him at the ABC Cafe, if you hurry.”  _

_ Edward inhaled sharply, tears springing to his eyes, giddy joy making him dizzy. The ABC Cafe...after all this time, Alfred had been drawn back to the place where he and Edward had first met.... _

_ “Thank you, thank you!” he scarcely remembered to call over his shoulder, already sprinting off… _

“And I believe you already know the next part of the story,” Edward announces, grinning as he presses a kiss to Alfred’s bright blond hair, tightening his arms around him. 

Alfred stares up at him, his tantalising blue eyes swimming with tears.

“I’m so sorry, Edward,” he whispers. “You’ve been through so much pain...if I’d have known…”

“Ssh,” Edward reproves him, pressing a kiss to his forehead this time. He can’t seem to get enough of touching Alfred, holding him, inhaling his sweet scent, as if he still needs convincing that he’s really there. 

“You’ve been through a lot too, I know it. Neither of us knew, otherwise we would have found each other sooner. The past is the past, Alfred. All that matters now is that you’re here, and I’m here, and I will never leave you again. And I am so,  _ so  _ proud of you.”

Alfred grins, leaning forward to press a soft, sweet kiss to his lips. When he breaks away, he rests his head on Edward’s chest again, and the two of them lapse into silence again, Alfred tracing absentminded patterns on Edward’s chest, looking like he is deep in thought.

“And you still don’t know who it was that saved you from the barricade?” he asks after a moment. 

Edward shakes his head.

“Not a clue.”

“Well, whoever it was, I thank god for them,” Alfred says quietly, his voice a little shaky. Edward smiles, pressing another gentle kiss to the top of his head, stroking a reassuring hand up and down his arm. 

Alfred takes a deep breath, evidently trying to steady himself and break free of the bad memories, before looking up at Edward again with a smile.

“I’m so glad you managed to reconcile with your father, despite everything.”

Edward smiles back at him.

“Me too,” he responds. “I confess, I was not sure this day would ever come!”

“Speaking of which,” Alfred says sternly, propping himself up on his elbows, “didn’t you tell your father that you would return to him as soon as you could? Should you not be making your way back there about now, Monsieur?”

He grins teasingly as Edward sighs. 

“In a minute,” he says. “There’s just one thing I need to do first…”

And he leans in, kissing him insistently, feeling Alfred giggle against his mouth.

* * *

_ Two Weeks Later _

“Are you alright?” Alfred asks quietly.

Edward exhales slowly.

“I am. Or at least, I will be soon,” he answers. “It’s just...it’s strange to know that he’s gone, you know?” 

“I know,” Alfred murmurs, walking forwards and wrapping his arms around him gently.

Edward gives him a small smile, allowing himself to melt into Alfred’s embrace with a sigh, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. 

“Thank god I found you again,” he murmurs, and Alfred smiles against his chest. 

They have both lost so many people around them now - it seems almost a miracle that, despite losing all the other students, despite losing Florence, George, Alfred’s father and now Edward’s father as well, they have somehow managed to find their way back to each other. 

Charles Drummond’s funeral, which they have only just returned from, was bleak, cold and wet. Having only met the man once, Alfred had felt a little like he was intruding. He knows that supporting Edward at his father’s funeral was the right thing to do - but it was still immensely difficult for both of them, following all the losses and grief they had already suffered over the year. 

For Edward, there are also practicalities to deal with, as his wealthy father has left him everything. He doesn’t want it all, of course, and he would gladly have given almost everything away to the needy, had Alfred not reminded him that he ought to at least keep  _ some  _ of his father’s possessions, if only for their sentimental value, or to honour Charles’s memory. 

And so, here they are, back at the house that Edward grew up in, the house where Charles Drummond had died peacefully with his son at his side, Alfred and Mina having instantly agreed to help Edward sort through his father’s possessions. 

“Shall I start sorting out the books?” Mina asks gently. “I’m happy to, if you two need a minute.”

Alfred glances at her, seeing that she is looking at the two of them with that familiar soft and slightly tearful gaze again. When Alfred had woken her up to show her that somehow, miraculously, Edward had come back to him, she had blanched, before throwing herself at Edward, hugging him tightly. As she released him, Alfred had seen her frantically wiping at her eyes, trying to hide her tears. The sight had brought tears to his own eyes - he understood that she was crying not just from happiness and relief on Alfred’s behalf, but also because of how cruelly unfair it must seem that Edward could return to Alfred, while Florence could never return to her. 

Alfred’s heart goes out to her again as she looks at the two of them embracing. Of course she had never said a word about how much it hurt; she would not want to cause either of them any pain or guilt. But he knows how much she has been suffering in silence. 

“No, no, Mina, we’ll help,” he assures her with a smile, disentangling himself from Edward slightly. “Right, Edward?”

“Of course,” he says with a nod, smiling at her too.

But they have scarcely turned back to the books when the butler, Gillenormand, arrives in the doorway, coughing awkwardly to announce his presence. Alfred tries to hide his grin at the uncomfortable look on the man’s face; Edward has told him that Gillenormand is still completely baffled by his seeming return from the dead. 

“Yes, Gillenormand, what is it?” Edward asks him patiently. 

“There is a man here asking to see you, Monsieur,” he responds.

“A man?” Edward repeats, frowning. “Who is he?” 

“He did not tell me his name, Monsieur. He just informed me that he had some urgent business to discuss with you.”

Edward exchanges a mystified look with Alfred.

“Very well,” Edward says hesitantly after a moment, evidently giving in to his curiosity. “Send him in, please.”

Gillenormand nods and retreats from the room. 

A moment later, a tall, thin man, with greying hair and small, shrewd eyes walks into the room. He’s wearing a ridiculously garish coat and wig. Alfred is fairly certain he’s never seen this man before, although something about him looks vaguely familiar, and as he bows obsequiously to Edward, smirking, Alfred feels an almost instinctive shiver of revulsion. Apparently, though, he is the only person in the room unfamiliar with the man; judging by the way Mina and Edward immediately tense up at the sight of him, both wearing expressions of outrage, they are already well acquainted with him. 

“Monsieur Drummond,” the man croons. “So kind of you to see me on such short notice…”

“What the hell do you want, Kerr?” Edward snaps, cutting him off. 

Alfred stares at him, startled - Edward is never usually so aggressive. The man - Kerr, apparently - looks rather shocked too. 

“Oh for god’s sake, did you think I would not recognise you, just because you’re ‘disguised’ in that ridiculous coat and wig?” Edward demands, glaring at the man with more disgust than Alfred has ever seen on his face. “I was your neighbour for  _ months _ , Kerr. I saw the hell that you put Florence through.”

“Florence?” Alfred repeats, comprehension slowly dawning. So  _ that’s  _ why he looks a little familiar.... “He’s Florence’s father?”

“Unfortunately for her, yes,” Edward answers, still looking at the man as though he is a piece of dirt on his shoe.

“But then…” Alfred turns to Mina as he puts two and two together. 

“This is the man Papa rescued me from when I was a child, yes,” she says quietly, answering his unspoken question. “He put me through hell, too.”

“Ah, so  _ you’re  _ the little toad, are you?” Kerr asks curiously, turning to stare at her, evidently having decided to drop all pretense. Shamelessly, he rakes his gaze over her from head to toe, his eyes lingering on her breasts. He grins. “Grew up nice though, didn’t you?”

Alfred makes a furious start towards him, but Edward puts a gentle hand on his shoulder, warning him to try and keep his temper. 

“It does rather astonish me that you would dare to show your face here, Kerr, after everything you’ve done,” he says to him through clenched teeth. “I suggest that you tell me what you want quickly, and then get out.”

Kerr gives him a frank, shrewd look, evidently measuring him up. 

“It’s Paget I came to talk to you about, Monsieur,” he responds finally. “Henry Paget.”

Alfred and Mina both give a start, staring at each other.

“I see,” Edward says shortly. “And what  _ about  _ Henry Paget, pray tell?”

“Got some valuable news, I have,” Kerr says with a slight smirk. “And I expect some generous compensation for the trouble I took in coming here…”

“Just  _ get on  _ with it, Kerr!” Edward snaps impatiently.

A malicious grin flickers across the man’s face. 

“ _ Monsieur _ Henry Paget,” he says with a sneer, “is a thief and a scoundrel - and I have evidence to believe he is very likely a murderer, too. Filth, he is.”

Alfred takes a step towards him again, feeling red-hot rage bubbling under his skin now. Edward holds him back, gripping his shoulder in warning again, as Mina lets out a cry of indignant outrage.

“My father is dead, Monsieur,” he snarls. “How  _ dare  _ you dishonour his memory with such blatant, disgusting lies?”

“Dead?” Kerr responds with a frown. “Don’t know how you figure that.”

Alfred, ready to make another snarling retort, is brought up short, staring at the man, his breath hitching in his throat.  _ Surely not… _

“What do you mean?” he whispers. 

“I saw him,” Kerr insists defiantly, “in the sewers. It was the night that the barricade fell. He was carrying a corpse, slung over his back. Looked to me like he was trying to dispose of the evidence. I tried to fight him; I wanted to restore justice, see. Plus the bastard had stolen this girl from me, years ago” - he nods in Mina’s direction - “and I still hadn’t managed to give him what was coming to him. But he got away. I did manage to take this fine souvenir off the corpse, though; no doubt depriving Paget of something he was hoping to loot from the body and fetch a pretty sum for.”

He holds out a small ring for Edward to inspect, smirking as though he is showing his trump card, incontrovertible evidence that he is speaking the truth. 

Edward takes the ring from him, looking at it closely. A moment later, the colour drains from his face, his hand flying to his mouth as he stares at Kerr in shock. 

“Edward?” Alfred asks, reaching out to him in concern. 

“This...this is  _ my  _ ring, Monsieur,” he says, as though he cannot quite believe what he is seeing. “This ring belonged to my little sister before she died, I wore it always! I thought I’d lost it, but....”

He glares at Kerr, his hands shaking, and Alfred watches as Kerr’s face drains of all colour. 

“You did  _ not  _ take this from a corpse that night, Monsieur,” he says quietly. “You took it from  _ me _ , when I was on the brink of death.”

Alfred swallows, his mouth dry, his heart suddenly pounding. Edward and Mina both stare at him, and he knows that they are all having exactly the same thought. 

“But then...that means…” Edward whispers, his eyes widening, gaze fixed on Alfred. “Alfred, the man who rescued me from the barricade that night...it was your father.”

Alfred feels like he can barely breathe.

“Papa  _ didn’t  _ die that night?” 

“More than that,” Edward says excitedly, “he may yet be alive, Alfred! He took me to the hospital in Digne...but the nurses never knew who he was...I never went looking for him…”

Alfred swallows. Surely it cannot be? First Edward returned to life, and then his wonderful, brave Papa? Surely it’s too good to be true? But, exchanging a look with Mina, he knows that they are both thinking the same thing: they have to try.

“We have to look for Papa. Now. ” he says firmly. Mina immediately nods in agreement.

Edward nods too, suddenly businesslike. 

“I’ll get a carriage,” he says, squeezing Alfred’s hand gently. “We’ll go to Digne, ask after him there.”

“I’ll come with you,” Alfred responds, making to follow him.

“Hang on!” Kerr shouts indignantly.

Edward, Alfred and Mina all turn back to him impatiently, eyebrows raised. 

“Paget was trying to rob you, Monsieur,” he spits at Edward bitterly. “And I have brought your precious ring back to you! Are you not going to give me some kind of  _ reward _ , for god’s sake?”

“Give you a  _ reward _ ?” Edward repeats incredulously, taking a step closer to him. “No. No, I think not, Monsieur.” 

Kerr, outraged, opens his mouth to speak, but Edward presses on. 

“I don’t believe for a second that you truly thought Henry Paget was trying to rob me.  _ You  _ tried to rob me of this ring. As far as you were concerned, you were looting a corpse. Then, hearing that I was back in Paris and my father had just died, leaving me his wealth, you thought you could come here and get money out of me by claiming you had incriminating information on Henry Paget. But he was - or perhaps  _ is  _ \- ten times the man you will ever be. You are despicable, Kerr.”

“Not to mention the fact that you tormented and abused me as a child, Monsieur,” Mina pipes up, stepping forwards too, and Alfred is taken aback by the icy hatred on her face. “You made my life a living nightmare for years. You drove my mother to an early grave with desperation and exhaustion, you are the reason I never knew her. I was lucky enough to be rescued from you by Henry Paget, but Florence” - her voice cracks - “Florence had to endure your abuse all her life.”

“If it were not for your constant abuse, Florence might never have been driven to the barricade that day,” says Edward, his voice shaking slightly. “She might still be alive today.”

Mina chokes on a sob, and Alfred immediately moves over to her, putting a comforting arm around her and kissing the top of her head. 

Kerr frowns slightly.

“My daughter is dead?” he asks. He pauses for a moment, as though processing this news. Then his face clears completely, and he shrugs. “Well, I did think it was quieter.” 

Edward’s face contorts with rage, his expression more alarming than Alfred even thought him capable of. Before Alfred can move to restrain him, Edward steps forward, pulls his arm back, and punches Kerr in the face, hard, taking the man completely by surprise so that he stumbles backwards. 

Alfred is sure that the shock on Kerr’s face mirrors his own; but a moment later, the shock is replaced by fury, and the man lunges towards Edward, his fist raised, ready to retaliate. He does not get there; moving forward quickly to block Kerr’s path to his lover, Alfred punches him hard in the face for a second time. 

Kerr staggers, dazed. Alfred exchanges a quick glance with Edward; wordlessly, they both stride forwards to grab him, wrestling his arms behind his back.

“Curtain,” Alfred grunts to Mina, gesturing with his head, still struggling with the man. Luckily, she understands without further explanation, running over to pull the rope cord from the curtain and hurrying back to them. 

“Tight as you can, Mina,” Alfred says breathlessly, and she obeys, tying Kerr’s arms tightly behind his back. Edward quickly takes his neckerchief off and fashions a gag out of it. Kerr stops struggling, his eyes narrowed as he glares at them with hatred. 

Together, Alfred and Edward make a move to wrestle him down into a chair - but Mina stops them. 

“May I have a turn?” she asks. Alfred nods. 

Mina moves forward towards Florence’s father, looking at him as though he is a piece of dirt on her shoe. To Alfred’s shock, she looks the man up and down, and then spits in his face, just as Florence had done so many months before. 

“That’s for Florence,” she tells him coldly. 

As Kerr grimaces, trying to wipe his face clean on his shoulder, Mina knees him in the groin, hard, so that he doubles over in silent agony. 

“And that’s for me.” 

Alfred stares at her, a proud and delighted grin spreading over his face. 

Together, the three of them wrestle Kerr down into a chair, fetching the other curtain cord to ensure he is tied there securely.

“Thank you for returning my ring, Monsieur,” Edward says sardonically, sliding it back onto his finger. “It means a lot, truly.”

Alfred smiles at him softly, filled with pride, knowing that his little sister’s ring is a more valuable material possession for Edward than almost anything his father had left him. 

“What now?” he asks, shaking himself slightly. 

“Well, I don’t believe it should be too difficult to find a policeman and inform him that we have found the thief who stole my ring, and that he is now patiently waiting to be arrested in my father’s house,” Edward responds, smirking down at Kerr, who growls incoherently at him through his gag. “And then, once that’s sorted, we’ll get the carriage and head straight to Digne.”

“To find my father?” Alfred asks quietly, with another flutter of hope.

Edward nods, reaching out to squeeze his hand gently.

“To find your father.”

* * *

Leaning against Edward’s chest as he’s jolted uncomfortably by the carriage, Alfred gazes at Mina on the seat opposite, who’s twitching slightly, an anxious frown furrowing her brow even in her dreams. 

He can’t understand how she’s managed to fall asleep. Not just because of the uncomfortable way the carriage is lurching from side to side, but also because of the information they’ve just received, the huge, terrifying uncertainty they’re facing. Perhaps it’s just the sheer exhaustion of everything that’s happened catching up to her. 

He shifts slightly in Edward’s arms, sighing.

Edward shifts behind him, tightening his arms around Alfred slightly.

“Can’t sleep?” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the top of Alfred’s head. 

Alfred shakes his head.

“I’m terrified, Edward,” he confesses in a whisper, feeling tears welling in his eyes. 

Edward says nothing, but silently waits for him to elaborate, stroking his warm hand up and down Alfred’s arm gently. Alfred hesitates, trying to find the right words, comforted and encouraged by the knowledge that no matter what he says, Edward will accept him without judgement. 

“I’m just...I’m terrified to get my hopes up,” he admits tentatively. “I mean...what if Papa left Digne long ago, as soon as he’d made sure you were in good care in the hospital? Or what if he  _ has  _ been in Digne all this time, but he’s already died and we’re too late to see him?”

He turns around to face Edward, his eyes wide with fear. 

“It just seems far too good to be true, that I could get  _ you  _ back against all the odds, and then that I could somehow find Papa safe and sound as well,” he explains, his voice cracking slightly. “After everything I’ve been through, I just....I can’t lose him, Edward. Not for a second time. I  _ can’t. _ ”

He reaches up to dash the tears out of his eyes, trying to calm his breathing. Edward is silent for a moment. 

“I know how terrifying it is,” he murmurs finally. “Believe me, Alfred, I remember how it felt when I came back to Paris. But remember what I told you, before the barricade? How you should never be afraid of hope?”

Alfred swallows and nods, marvelling again at just how much Edward has turned his life around.

“Hope is what saved you when I wasn’t around, was it not?” Edward murmurs, and Alfred nods again. 

“Don’t give up on it now,” he whispers. “We have to keep believing, keep hoping for the best. And remember that no matter what happens, I’ll be with you. I’ll always be with you.”

He presses a soft kiss against Alfred’s forehead, as if to seal his promise, and Alfred can’t help but smile, his eyes fluttering shut. 

_ God _ , how he loves this man.

* * *

When they arrive in Digne, they immediately begin asking around the various taverns and inns, Alfred taking charge as they ask if anybody has seen an old man with a wooden leg, who was wounded when he arrived in the village. In most of the places they go to, nobody seems to have seen anybody matching Henry’s description. Alfred is getting more and more frantic, despite what Edward had said to him in the carriage, wondering what on earth he and Mina are going to do if it turns out Henry isn’t here after all. Edward squeezes his hand gently and reassuringly, clearly sensing his increasing distress. 

Finally, though, just when Alfred fears he is about to give up and give in to tears, somebody gives them some useful information. 

“An old man with a wooden leg?” asks the seventh innkeeper. “Did you say he was wounded when he arrived here?”

Alfred nods, hardly daring to breathe.

“He was not treated at the hospital, though,” Edward pipes up. 

The man frowns slightly, thinking. 

“Well, if he’s still in Digne, I think your best bet would probably be to go and ask the Bishop,” he says. “I’m fairly certain I’ve not seen such a man, but it’s the Bishop who usually takes in strangers to our village, particularly strangers in need.”

Alfred inhales, a rush of fierce hope coursing through him so that he clutches onto Edward’s arm to keep himself steady. 

“Do you know where we might find this Bishop?” Edward asks.

“Take a left to the end of the road, and follow the path straight up the hill,” the man responds, pointing. “You’ll find the Bishop’s cottage at the top, just next to the church.”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” Edward says, smiling at him and shaking his hand. Alfred tries to thank him as well, but his heart is pounding relentlessly and his words seem to have become stuck in his throat, so he simply swallows and nods in a way that he hopes conveys his gratitude. At his side, Mina looks exactly how he feels, pale and clammy, hopeful yet terrified at the same time. 

The cottage at the top of the hill is a small stone dwelling with an ivy-covered facade, humble and unimposing. The church standing nearby is similar - a little sanctuary made of whitewashed stone, a far cry from the soaring gothic cathedrals clustered in the heart of Paris. It’s peaceful and leafy up here, a calm morning breeze gently ruffling Alfred’s hair, no sound but rustling leaves and quiet birdsong - apart from the pounding of Alfred’s own heart, that is. 

Alfred looks to Edward for reassurance, terrified even now that this whole journey has been nothing but a wild goose chase. Edward nods at him encouragingly, squeezing his hand gently again. Alfred takes a deep breath, and raises his hand to knock on the front door of the little cottage.

Only a few short moments pass (though it feels like an eternity for Alfred) before the door swings open, revealing a little old man with kind, thoughtful eyes, wearing a white bishops’ robe. His mouth opens slightly in shock as soon as he sets eyes on Alfred. 

“Good morning, Monsieur,” Alfred says, holding his hand out tentatively as Edward nudges him forward gently. “My name is Alfred Paget. I am looking for my father, Henry Paget? Somebody down in the village told me that I might find him here?”

The little old man’s eyes fill with tears, and he reaches up to wipe them away. 

“I did think you must be his son,” he says throatily. “You are the spitting image of him, Monsieur.” 

Alfred’s heart leaps into his throat. 

“So...so you  _ have  _ seen him, then?” he asks, his voice coming out in a croak. “He’s not - he’s not still here, is he?”

The bishop nods. As Mina gasps next to him, Alfred raises a shaking hand to his mouth, trying to stop himself from breaking down in tears.

“He  _ is  _ still here, Monsieur,” the bishop answers, “but he is very weak. I am afraid he does not have long. You are just in time. Please, follow me.”

Feeling his heart pounding again, overwhelmed with a potent combination of joy and grief, Alfred hastily steps into the cottage, followed swiftly by Edward and Mina. The little old man turns back to them, beaming. 

“Monsieur Paget will be  _ so  _ happy to see his son again,” he tells them. 

When they come to a door that’s slightly ajar at the end of the corridor, the bishop knocks gently. 

“What is it?” The voice is faint but still impatient....and very familiar. Feeling his heart leap again, Alfred exchanges a tearful glance with Mina. Until this very second, he is not sure that either of them had truly believed it.

“There are some visitors here to see you, Monsieur,” the bishop says quietly.

“Visitors?” 

Alfred can’t yet see his father past the bishop standing in the doorway, but he grins to himself, vividly picturing the bemused yet irritated expression on Henry’s face.

“Yes, Monsieur,” the old man replies, nodding. “Rather special visitors, I think you’ll find.”

And he steps aside, allowing Alfred, Mina and Edward to step into the room. Henry looks up, apparently about to ask another question - but the words appear to die in his throat as he meets his son’s eyes. 

“Alfred?” he whispers, as though he doesn’t dare to believe that his son is real. 

Alfred nods, his eyes welling with tears as the bishop quietly backs out of the room behind them. He feels a lump swelling in his throat - despite the fact that he’s been disabled for Alfred’s entire lifetime, Alfred has never once thought of his wonderful, fierce Papa as frail or tired, until this moment. But then, he doesn’t remember ever seeing such an expression of overwhelmed  _ joy  _ on Henry’s face either.

Mina quietly moves closer to the bed, pressing a shaking hand to her mouth, and Henry flicks his gaze over to her.

“And Mina too?” he whispers, his voice cracking slightly. 

“And Mina too,” she confirms, laughing through her tears, walking over to the bed to squeeze his hand gently and prove to him that she is real. 

Henry stares back and forth between the two of them, his eyes flickering over briefly to Edward as well. 

“And George?” he whispers, looking fearfully at Alfred as though he dreads hearing the answer.

Alfred feels a familiar lurch of pain in his chest as he shakes his head slowly. 

“No. George didn’t make it, Papa. Just us.” 

There is silence in the room for a moment as Henry’s lower lip trembles; and then, without warning, he begins to cry in earnest, taking great, heaving sobs with rattling breaths.

Alfred feels his heart wrench, tears falling silently down his own cheeks as he leans forwards, wrapping his arms around his father, rocking him back and forth gently as Mina wraps her arms around him too. It feels strange to be the strong one, to be the one comforting his father; he’s never in his life seen his Papa, always stoic, always dignified, break down like this. 

“I thought...I thought I’d lost you all,” he cries, his voice faint between sobs. “I thought I’d failed you…”

“ _ No,  _ Papa,” Alfred says firmly. “You have never failed any of us. Not even once. You saved Edward’s life. I will  _ never  _ be able to thank you enough for that.”

“I...how did you know….?”

“That bastard, Kerr,” Alfred answers with a small smirk. “Came to find Edward when he heard he was back in Paris. Tried to get Edward to pay him for information on you - claimed that he’d seen you lugging a corpse through the sewers, that you’d gotten away when he tried to bring you for justice, and that he’d managed to take the ring from the corpse before you looted it. Rather shot himself in the foot by presenting Edward with his own ring, though.”

Alfred grins at his father, who gives a weak shadow of a grin in return. 

“Never the sharpest tool in the box, that man, was he?” he says. Alfred laughs, and Henry chuckles too, but stops quickly, wincing with a grimace of pain. Alfred squeezes his hand again. 

Tentatively, Edward kneels down at the bedside. 

“I must humbly beg your pardon, Monsieur,” he says, and Alfred sees that his eyes are welling with tears too. “I should have been at your side much sooner, but I only just found out that it is  _ you  _ whom I must thank for giving me my life that night. Without you, I would never have been reunited with Alfred. I lay my life down at your feet.”

Henry looks at him as though shocked by his gratitude, as though he isn’t sure he deserves it. 

“I tried to save you both.” His voice is fading, just as Florence’s had done at the barricade all those months ago. “I went after the two of you, I found you both in the square - but only after you had both been shot.” He winces at the memory, but presses on, as though he is desperate for them to understand. “I waited in the shadows until I thought the soldiers had gone and the coast was clear. I ran towards you, I meant to pick you both up and take you to safety. I reached you first, Drummond, and I hoisted you up onto my shoulders - but Alfred, you were further away from me, and before I could reach you...I was shot at. It seemed I was wrong; there was still one soldier who had not left yet. The wound was not too severe, he hit me in the shoulder; but I believe I passed out from the pain. When I came to, he was gone, but I still had Drummond on top of me. I could barely move from the pain, but I managed to crawl into the sewer with him. I intended to come back for you, Alfred, but I ran into Kerr in the sewer. He was down there hunting for valuables that had been washed away from the bodies. I had collapsed again for a few minutes, and I believe he thought we were both dead; that must have been when he took Drummond’s ring. When I realised it was him, I fought him off with every bit of strength I had left, and he fled. I managed to pull you out at the other end of the sewer, Drummond - but then I had to face the fact that I did not have enough energy or strength left in me to crawl all the way back and rescue my son. I knew that if I attempted it, I would very likely have collapsed and died of exhaustion myself in the middle of that sewer - and what good would that be? That way,  _ both _ of you were likely to die, alone and abandoned. I thought that, if I had failed my son when he needed me most, then the least I could do was to save the man he had loved. It was all I could do to hail a carriage. I didn’t care where they were going, just as long as they took us far away from Paris. The driver agreed to take us to Digne with him, and I managed to get Drummond to the hospital. I told the nurses where I had come from, and” - his voice is choked with tears - “that I didn’t believe there had been any other survivors. I explained that it was of the utmost importance that they nurse this man back to health. They wanted me to stay so they could heal my wound, too, but I refused - I couldn’t bear to sit there with you any longer, Drummond, now that I knew you were in good hands. Every time I looked at you, I was reminded of everyone that I’d failed to save. I’d tried  _ so  _ hard to keep my children safe. And I’d lost them. I was convinced there was nothing left for me, so I sat down against a wall in the darkness, waiting until I succumbed to my exhaustion. But the bishop found me, on his way to visit someone. When I refused to go back to the hospital, he rather forced me to come up to his cottage. I was too weak to protest by that point. 

And so, I have stayed here ever since. The bishop healed my wound and let me rest. He’s a good man. I told him my story. But, even though my wound was healed, I knew that I was growing weaker. I knew that I was dying. I’m an old, tired man, with a broken heart and nothing left to live for - or so I thought. Never in a thousand years did I think I would be lucky enough to see my children again. Not in this life, at least.”

Alfred finds that he cannot find words meaningful enough with which to respond. He can’t speak. He can barely even see, tears blurring his vision as he squeezes Henry’s hand wordlessly. 

“You are a hero, Monsieur,” Edward tells him.

The ghost of a smile flickers across Henry’s face.

“I thought I already told you once before to call me Henry, young man,” he responds.

“Henry,” Edward echoes sheepishly, with a small smile. 

“My son loves you very much, you know,” Henry says to him, peering at him closely. “I could see it as soon as I saw the two of you together, back on the barricade.” He sounds as though it is costing him an immense effort to speak. “I never thought he would love again. I never thought he would laugh again. But you seem to have given him back his light and his hope, Drummond - and for that, I can never thank you enough.”

“I love Alfred very much, too,” Edward murmurs, looking sideways at Alfred with a soft smile, squeezing his hand gently. Alfred squeezes his hand back, still unable to speak past the lump in his throat. 

“And do you promise to take care of him once I am gone?” Henry asks faintly. 

The tears are falling thick and fast down Alfred’s face now. Edward nods.

“I swear it on my life,” he replies. 

“Good,” Henry breathes, smiling serenely as though the last of his troubles has been lifted with these words. “Thank you for bringing my children back to me, Monsieur. Now I can die in peace - for now my life is blessed.”

“Please, Papa, don’t speak like that!” Mina protests, her voice choked, squeezing Henry’s other hand as tears stream down her face. “We have only just found you, it’s too soon to say goodbye!”

Henry chuckles weakly, squeezing Mina’s hand back with his last remaining bit of strength. 

“I promised your mother, on her deathbed, that I would raise and love you as my own, Mina,” he tells her, his voice fainter than ever now, “and I have kept that promise.”

Mina squeezes her eyes shut, kneeling next to the bed as she clasps his hand.

“And I loved my Charlotte,” Henry continues, turning to Alfred, “and I loved our boys.” 

A soft smile spreads over his face as he gazes at Alfred, and Alfred looks back at him desperately, trying to commit his father’s face to memory. 

“I loved you all so much,” Henry murmurs quietly. “And, because of that, I believe that I have already seen the face of God.”

And with that, Alfred’s father sighs deeply, as if he’s releasing all of the troubles that have ever burdened him in the world - and then he closes his eyes and goes still, his face completely serene.

Alfred sits frozen for a moment, feeling completely numb. It’s over. His Papa really is gone from him now. 

Mina lets out a small, choked sob of disbelief, and the sound seems to make something break inside Alfred. Gently, cautiously, Edward wraps his arms around him, and, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by everything, Alfred turns to the man he loves, burying his face in his chest, his entire body shaking with sobs. 

* * *

** _Sixteen Years Later - February 1848. _ **

Alfred bursts through the door of the ABC Cafe, his heart pounding, scarcely daring to believe that the news is real. Edward starts and looks up, hurrying over to him, taking both Alfred’s hands in his. 

“ _ Well _ ?” he demands. 

“It’s...it’s done, Edward,” Alfred tells him, his voice dazed. “Louis-Phillippe has  _ finally  _ abandoned his throne - he has not only fled from the palace, he has fled Paris altogether! I’ve just had word that he’s on his way out of France now, as we speak!”

Edward stares at him for a moment, stunned - then his entire face lights up with that familiar, boyish grin, seeming to bathe the entire tavern in sunlight. Amazing how, even now, after sixteen years, that smile  _ still  _ somehow manages to make his heart melt, Alfred muses to himself. 

Before he knows it, Edward is wrapping his arms around him tightly, lifting him up in the air and spinning him around in a circle, laughing in joy and triumph - and Alfred finds he can’t help but laugh gleefully along with him. Edward puts him back down on the floor all too soon, pulling him close to his body, burying his face in Alfred’s hair and breathing in the scent. 

“And here you thought that we were too old to be back on the barricades again,” Edward teases him. “You didn’t actually believe we could really do it, did you, Alfred?”

Alfred rolls his eyes, grinning at Edward as he brushes the curls out of his eyes. The thick dark hair is laced with delicate grey now; running his hands through it, Alfred still finds himself thanking God that he has lived to watch Edward growing older, to grow older with him. 

“ _ Actually _ , I’ll have you know that I never gave up hope for a second, even when things looked bleakest and darkest,” he responds indignantly. “I seem to remember it was  _ you  _ who taught me that, Monsieur.”

Edward smiles softly at him, cupping his face in his hand gently, and Alfred feels his heart swell in his chest as usual.

“I love you so much,” Edward tells him quietly. “And I am  _ so  _ proud of you, my husband.”

Alfred grins up at him.

“You do know that our ‘wedding’ was not actually legally binding, don’t you?” he reminds him, poking at Edward’s chest teasingly.

Edward shrugs, grinning back at him, unfazed.

“We exchanged vows, we exchanged rings, Mina witnessed it, along with her ‘friend’ Cecilia - ”

“What, they  _ are _ friends!” Alfred says, completely unconvincingly. 

Edward just raises an eyebrow at him silently, and Alfred grins, rolling his eyes again as he swats gently at Edward’s arm. Cecilia, the pretty, witty and vivacious redheaded woman who had first joined them for their rallies and meetings about a year ago, cutting herself off from her aristocratic family, is certainly an excellent friend of Alfred’s by now - he’d found her excellent company from the moment they’d met. Mina evidently also enjoys Cecilia’s company, but neither Alfred nor Edward - or anyone else who has seen them together, most likely - is blind enough to think that there is only friendship between the two women. Alfred has known Mina long enough, and he’s seen the signs before. He knows when she’s in love. He’s glad of it - it’s about time his sister was happy again.

“Well, anyway,” Edward continues, deciding not to press the point, “whatever you say, Alfred, it was a perfect wedding as far as I’m concerned. It was good enough for me.”

Alfred grins wider, standing up on his tiptoes slightly to nuzzle his nose against Edward’s softly. 

“It was good enough for me too, you silly man,” he whispers. 

For a moment the two of them stand there in comfortable silence, foreheads pressed together, Alfred silently wondering how it is even possible to be this happy. 

“So, what now?” Alfred asks after a moment, twining his arms around Edward’s neck as he looks up at him. “Louis-Phillipe has fled. His regime is over. Anything could happen now, Edward.”

Edward nods, chewing his bottom lip as he always does when he’s deep in thought.

“You’re right,” he responds finally. “Anything  _ could  _ happen. But there’s still a lot of work to be done, Alfred.”

Alfred sighs wearily, looking down at the ground, his joy dented slightly. Edward gently lifts his chin back up, coaxing Alfred to meet his warm brown eyes again.

“This isn’t the end, Alfred,” he says quietly. “This is the beginning. Remember I told you once, many years ago, that even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise?”

Alfred nods, feeling his heart lift again as he looks at Edward’s beautiful face, no less determined and passionate than it was when they first met sixteen years ago.

“Yes, I remember,” he murmurs. 

“Well, the night is over now, Alfred,” Edward responds. Alfred feels his heart swell again, watching another bright smile spreading slowly over Edward’s face, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. “A new dawn is here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! First time I've ever properly finished a proper fic! 
> 
> I absolutely LOVED writing this Les Mis AU and combining two of my favourite things, even though it's definitely the darkest story I've ever written. For all of the times when reading this thing hurt...I am sorry. If it helps, I made myself cry a bit too, particularly as I was wrapping it up. I hope I made up for it in the end XD  
Let me know if you've got any headcanons about what happens to the characters after the ending, or if you'd like to know any of mine, and I will happily chat about it, because I loved writing this AU so much and I'm sad to say goodbye to it!
> 
> I'll still be writing Drumfred for a little bit, finishing off my main fic - and then maybe some modern AU fluff to make up for this angst-fest, who knows XD
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's come along with me on this journey, reading and/or commenting. It means the world to me, and I'm so glad to be a part of this creative little community.
> 
> Until next time <3 <3 <3 xxx

**Author's Note:**

> I wonder what or who Alfred and George might find at the ABC Cafe meeting? 
> 
> If you're already wanting to throw things at me.... sorry *shrugs*
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it - there will be more to come soon and, as always, kudos and comments make my day!


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